The Morrígan
by Portuguese Irish
Summary: "I'm no raven!" the raven exclaimed annoyedly, and it suddenly became bigger, bigger to the point that Kroenen had to open his hand. The wings were replaced by arms, the head became human, and few seconds later a girl was standing between Kroenen and Rasputin, her pale cheeks flushed with fatigue from the journey.
1. A World to Win

**Auhtor's note: **all right, 1st Hellboy fic! I watched the 2 movies a few years ago, and the other day while doing absolutely nothing productive I came across a really funny fanart of Kroenen. Aw, the memories!, and I suddenly found myself listening to Wagner, and Rossini, and Dvorak, and a few more, and I HAD TO watch the movies again. And do a little research in the comic books.

So I thought 'Poor Kroenen, walks around for some 15 minutes and then bam!, off screen! Life's not fair!'. And after some research I came up with a pretty convincing story. \m/ ò3ó Or so I think...

English is just my second language; German is my third language. This said, I am very, very sorry for any mistakes.

One last thing: each chapter starts with a song that kind of resumes the chapter, or fits a character I talk about in said chapter. Please take a look, it might interest you more in the story. :)

* * *

_A World to Win (Gorgoroth)_

_For you the life of temptation_  
_Temptations so wild_  
_With the suffers hold my glad_  
_Treasures blood will raped by so lies_

_So natural so wild, get its the silent sun_  
_Resurrection run the beautiful world_  
_Now want to cut a world to win_  
_The beautiful world, ya, how we must to grasp you_

* * *

_Ireland, Carrick-on-Shannon, present day_

She was sitting on the parapet of the window, reading, enjoying the silence of her room. It wasn't very big and had only her bed, bookshelves full of books, a wardrobe, a big chest at the end of the bed and a desk. Under the desk there was a sewing machine and over it dozens of drawings of clothes. Outside the day was dark, and even though it was little past lunch time the sun light was weak, even at the window.

She was about to close her book when she noticed a raven flying outside, to her window. With a frown, she opened the window and waited, until the raven landed right in front of her and cawed. The girl frowned, listening carefully to those most interesting news:

"Are you sure?" she asked. The raven nodded. The girl left her book aside and looked around, excitement and happiness rising inside her; that was her chance! She imagined how happy she would finally be if she managed to learn how to better control her powers, how happy she would be when she was finally respected and accepted and even valued for what she was.

She didn't think twice and stood up, smiling widely:

"Will you show me the way?" she asked the raven, that nodded once more. She sighed. "Ok, I need to focus on this, can't screw up like the last time!" And she made a huge effort to concentrate. Slowly, she felt her body shrink and feathers replace hair, her arms became wings and a beak grew on her face.

Within a few seconds there were two ravens on the parapet. The girl, now raven, looked around, making sure she wasn't going with human legs or arm; seemed this time she had gotten it right! Cawing, both ravens took off.

The girl couldn't cover great distances without resting, so the journey was destined to take a while; maybe a week if she put all her effort into it. The girl and the raven stopped in abandoned houses, or in small woods, which means it took them one day and one night to cross the entire country, until they reached Dungarvan at the end of the second day. After staying in a small abandoned cottage, they left with the dawn and crossed the sea, to stop again in the seaside of Southwest England for a while, before crossing the south coast of England and the English Channel and stop again in Dunkerque; after resting a while they flew to the Southeast of Europe.

And after nine days of journey, resting only for brief moments now that the sea had been crossed and eating berries, the two ravens were flying on the Moldavian sky, and at the end of the day the ravens reached a small castle in the north of the country, near the mountains and a river valley. The raven told the girl they had reached their destination, and that from now on the girl had to go alone.

* * *

_Moldavia, castle near the Dniester Hills_

"The Three Musketeers," said Rasputin, smiling at his two most loyal and only remaining followers. "I wonder if there'll be any D'Artagnan...?"

They were in the dinning room of the castle, that had belonged to Rasputin's family and now was meant to be their headquarters for a while. It was a circular room, the ceiling was high, with ribbed vaultings, and the walls had one window each, with stained glass. There was a big fireplace in one of the walls, and in the wall opposite there was a door, the only in the room. In spite of the beautiful architecture of the building, the furnishings were poor and there were no servants.

Rasputin was sitting on a wooden armchair, looking at his followers with his empty eye sockets hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. He had been resurrected the day before. Ilsa von Haupstein was sitting on a small wooden stool at his right, smiling widely. Kroenen was sitting on the marble floor in front of the Russian man:

"What will we do now?" Ilsa asked eagerly. Rasputin rolled his beard on his fingers, thoughtful:

"First, we must gather information about our enemies. Only then can we focus on re-opening the portal," he said. "The library is full of books that might be helpful; they teach spells we can use to see the enemy and spells that can teleport us anywhere we need."

"Can we start now?" Ilsa clapped her hands enthusiastically. Kroenen just nodded. Rasputin smiled and stood up:

"In spite of my powers... I'm starving. And in spite of your powers, Ilsa, I believe you are starving too. So I suggest we eat something first. You can go ahead, Karl."

Kroenen sighed but nodded. He stood up and walked out of the dinning room. He crossed a long and well-lighted corridor, and he couldn't help but admire the colourful reflections of the stained glass on the floor. The ceiling was high and with ribbed vaultings, and one of the walls had full-length windows. There were no decorations. The corridor ended on a big and dark wooden door that Kroenen opened; it leaded to a small courtyard that could have been once a beautiful garden, but now the trees were dead and instead of flowers there were weeds, and the stone benches were just ruins on the ground.

Then a cheeky raven landed right in front of him. Kroenen halted, surprised, and tilted his masked head looking at the raven; that was new, animals didn't dare to come close! The raven just stared back at him, looking curiously at the masked man dressed in black. Annoyed with such insolence, Kroenen drew a small knife from a scabbard tied to his thigh. The raven tilted its head:

"Oi oi oi! Put that thing down, what the Hell do you think you're doing?" the raven asked indignantly. And Kroenen did let go the knife, because if it isn't not normal for a bird coming this close, a talking bird was even more unusual. The man gaped inside his mask and furrowed his hairless eyebrows. The raven was still tilting its head. "Thank you! Now tell me lad, where can I find Grigory Rasputin?"

Kroenen took his hands to his head; a talking raven that wanted to see his Master! A talking raven with the weirdest and ugliest English he had ever heard! How weird would it be to talk back to the raven?:

"What do you want, raven?" he asked in a hiss. The raven waved its wings in the air in a very odd way:

"I'm no raven!" it replied. Kroenen frowned even more, and just to be sure there was nothing wrong with him he rubbed the back of his gloved hands on the lenses of his mask; it was still a raven. He looked at the black bird for a moment, thinking and winding up his clockwork heart... and then he grabbed the raven with a movement too fast for the human's (and raven's) eye. "Ouch, you're hurting me!" the raven exclaimed and struggled, but is was useless. Kroenen turned around to where he had came and started to run, ignoring the raven pecking at his hand.

Ilsa and Rasputin were trying to warm a ready-made box of noddles in the microwave when Kroenen stormed into the kitchen:

"It's a talking raven!" the German man exclaimed, nearly shoving the raven on Rasputin's and Ilsa's faces:

"I'm no raven!" the raven exclaimed annoyedly, and it suddenly became bigger, bigger to the point that Kroenen had to open his hand. The wings were replaced by arms, the head became human, and few seconds later a girl was standing between Kroenen and Rasputin, her pale cheeks flushed with fatigue from the journey. Kroenen's chin would have fallen to the floor if his mask wasn't there to hold it in place. Rasputin and Ilsa gaped for him.

The girl was tall and slender, with sharp features and ghostly pale skin. She had waist-length wavy black hair, claw-like nails painted in black and emerald green eyes that seemed to glow due to the black makeup around them. She was dressed in black, wearing a bishop sleeve with an underbust corset, skinny jeans and high-heels. There were rings in every finger of her hands and two big loop earrings peeking from under her hair.

A small and nervous smile grew on her lips covered in black lipstick:

"See? I'm no raven!" she said. Kroenen was still digesting that. Ilsa was already taking the measure of the girl, with the most unfriendly expression she could use. Rasputin smiled, slowly:

"No, you are not a raven. You are a shapeshifter!" he exclaimed. His Gods had sent him a D'Artagnan! "What brought you to us, blessed creature?"

"A raven told me something big would happen, and there would be people who could help me to control my powers," the young girl explained excitedly. "Something big that would change the world, and all I had to do was to find Grigory Rasputin."

"You just found. A raven told you all of that?" Rasputin was still smiling. That was too good to be true; a new and innocent follower, one he, Ilsa and Kroenen could shape as they wished. The girl tilted her head to one side, just like ravens did when watching something interesting:

"Ravens do not lie, sir. I came all the way from Ireland, as a raven."

"Your quest was not in vain!" Rasputin pulled a chair and sat. Ilsa stood beside him and Kroenen joined her. "Now tell me, besides shifting into a raven, what else can you do?"

"I can shift into a horse. Well, mare..." the girl said with a little nervous giggle. She wanted to impress, so she focused and, in spite of the fatigue, she managed to transform slowly in a small black mare, but she didn't last much as an equine and became human again. "And... I can summon stuff from pockets, and bags. There was this day I had a mace in my pocket, it was epic! Let me see if I can..." And she slipped her hand into a pocket and felt something inside it. She pulled it out, but instead of a mace was a shield.

Rasputin's inexistent eyes widened with satisfaction; he had good use for that girl! He stood up again, smiling widely, and started to walk in circles around the young girl:

"Impressive! And useful! Tell me, little one... for how long have you had your powers?"

"Since I can remember."

"And how old are you?"

"Eighteen."

Rasputin laughed; that was too good, too good! He surely did something that pleased his Gods, otherwise they wouldn't have granted him such a gift. He placed a hand over the girl's head and entered her mind; only a little precaution... he just wanted to be sure she wasn't an enemy spy. In her mind, he saw some of her memories, a few of her experiences, and felt the feelings related to the things he saw.

He saw everything he needed and let her go, and just as he expected she had fallen to her knees and was looking ahead, with big wide eyes and panting. Rasputin patted her head softly:

"Your intentions are good... Seems ravens don't lie at all!" The Russian man sat on his chair again while the girl managed to stand up again.

Rasputin decided he liked that girl; young, innocent and with very little control over her powers... that was the perfect recipe to acquire a dedicated and grateful follower. Beside him, Ilsa crossed her arms and offered the young girl a smile; that was just a silly girl, she offered no threat and, to be honest, Ilsa actually missed having a feminine figure to talk to. Kroenen, standing with his hands behind his back, didn't like the girl; she talked too much and acted too childish, even though her gait and posture seemed those of a queen.

Ilsa decided to befriend the girl:

"So, what's your name?" she asked. The girl smiled again:

"Alma Kiernan."

"I'm Ilsa," The woman smiled and placed a hand over Rasputin's shoulder. "You already know him, and that is Kroenen."

Alma's and Kroenen's eyes locked for a moment, before the masked man looked away, suddenly annoyed. Ilsa made her way to Alma and wrapped an arm around her shoulders:

"Ireland is pretty far, I bet you're tired and starving! Kroenen, warm up some noodles for her too while I show her the castle," the blonde-haired woman said and nearly dragged Alma away. The masked man wanted to protest, but Rasputin was watching, so all he did was sighing and doing what Ilsa told him to do.

* * *

"There isn't really much to see, the castle has been empty for decades. Only the bedrooms and the bathroom had the furnishings. Kroenen and I arrived a week ago and had to buy some extra chairs, food and a microwave," Ilsa explained as she and Alma climbed the marble stairs to the first floor. Then the woman leaded the girl along a corridor with several doors. "So, basically this is the only habitable wing of the building; my room," It was the first room on the right side. "Rasputin's room," It was the first room on the left side. "...and your room!" Ilsa opened the door of the second room on the right side and Alma peeked inside; it was very big, with a Victorian-styled double bed, a huge wardrobe made of dark wood and a small dressing table. The room had a big window with blood-red curtains, a Slavic tapestry hanging over the headboard of the bed and, at a corner, a small door that Alma presumed belonging to the bathroom:

"This is deadly!" Alma exclaimed excitedly. Ilsa frowned and the young girl laughed. "Sorry, «deadly» is slang for «fantastic»."

"Oh. Well then... now let's see the library!"

"Doesn't Kroenen have a room?" Alma asked as they went downstairs and made the same way the German man had done before finding the girl. Ilsa bit her lower lip:

"Hm, how to explain... he likes... darker places. His... let's call it room, is in the basement. I don't like it much down there, so you better ask him for a guided visit," she explained briefly. "We are in a bit of a hurry because we have some... unfinished business. But once that's finished you'll be properly welcomed."

"'kay," Alma replied. They reached the courtyard; it was already night. Across it was a single and smaller building, the library, and Ilsa took out the key from a pocket of her trousers:

"Rasputin won't allow you to come here alone, at least not while you don't have a better control over your powers. These are all very powerful magic books," the woman explained as she opened the door. They stepped in and Alma looked around, amazed, to all those bookcases covered with books; it all felt like a dream. Ilsa referred to magic like it was something absolutely normal and perfectly factual. That was all what Alma had ever wished for:

"Massive...!" Alma muttered, then translated. "Great."

"Good, now let's eat! We just have noddles..."

They came outside and Ilsa locked the door again. They made their way to the kitchen, walking side by side:

"Anything is better than berries. All I ate was berries," Alma told:

"Oh, one last thing," Ilsa stopped and Alma stopped too, looking at her curiously. The blonde-haired woman smiled. "Everytime you address Rasputin, you have to call him 'Master', because he's our leader. You can call me Ilsa. Kroenen... you can call him Kroenen too, but don't be upset if you talk to him and he doesn't even look, he's just like that."

The young girl just nodded.

* * *

Rasputin and Kroenen were waiting for them in the kitchen. It was a big place, with two big fireplaces, but the only furnishings were a small table, a microwave over it, two chairs and a small cupboard between the fireplaces. The Russian man was sitting on a chair, Ilsa sat on the other chair and Alma sat on the floor next to her. Kroenen was leaning against a wall, looking down at his boots. Rasputin opened the microwave's door and handed the woman and the girl a box of noodles each. They ate in silence. Alma noticed, for the first time, a faint ticking sound, and looked around to look for the clock. But there was no one in sight. She supposed the clock was somewhere else; due to her shapeshifting powers, she had an hearing and vision as accurate as the animals she shifted into.

Rasputin finished his noodles and put the empty box next to the microwave:

"Alma, I suppose Ilsa told you we are a little busy at the moment", he started. The young girl nodded. "You will find I'm a very honest man to those who are loyal to me, but I can start by telling you there is a lot of work to be done with you. So I decided that, to reward you for your quest, Kroenen is going to... teach you your first steps in this brave new world."

Kroenen turned his head so fast his neck snapped loudly. Alma just nodded. Ilsa tried not to laugh. Rasputin seemed unaware of Kroenen's and Ilsa's reactions and looked at the masked man:

"I trust you our little one, Karl. And I know you will make a most wonderful job with her!"

"I... I don't even know what to say. Thank you, Master," Kroenen mumbled. Ilsa leaned in to Alma:

"I've always heard Irish people are short-tempered. Is it true?", she asked in a whisper:

"Quare. Like... very. Why?" Alma whispered back. Ilsa tried hard not to laugh; Kroenen having to deal with the girl would be fun to watch.

* * *

Alma closed the door of her room and allowed herself to smile like a fool; unbelievable, she had made it! These were people like her, and they had accepted her! She was finally going to learn to control her powers! She would have friends! The young girl trotted to the window and looked outside, to the dark Moldavian night.

She felt free, finally. Her nightmares and torments were now miles away. Now was the beginning of a new life. There would be something big, like the raven said, and Alma would be part of it. She was going to be part of something! The young girl still couldn't believe her luck!:

"Now, focus," she muttered to herself and sighed. "Now I live here. I need stuff," She slipped her hand into a pocket, trying her best to concentrate. "Black makeup," She felt something and removed a small purse from her pocket. The young girl opened it and giggled, delighted; black lipstick, black eyeliner, black eyeshadow, black mascara and black nailpolish. She left the purse on the dressing table and slipped her hand into her pocket again. "A comb..." And again, she was successful. "Now, clothes. Tomorrow is training day," And from her pocket she removed a pair of tartan cargos. She frowned and tried again, but instead of cargos she got an oversized t-shirt. She sighed. "Okay, fine... That will have to do. One more thing, I need pajamas," And her pocket gave her another oversized t-shirt and a pair of swim shorts.

Alma rolled her eyes, but better that than nothing.

* * *

Kroenen locked the door of his dungeon. It was a dungeon; big, icy cold, stone walls and floor and no windows and what was left of some fetters hanging on the walls. The place was illuminated by many torches and, in the middle of the dungeon, Kroenen had placed a small table with a chair. Over the table he had a gramophone. There was also a semi-built mask, and scattered all over the floor were mechanical parts, tools and, piled neatly at a corner, opera records and a few spare blades and a whetstone that had given him a hell of a work to find.

He pulled the chair and sat heavily, frustrated; the annoying girl! He had to babysit the annoying girl! Not only she was annoying, she had made a fool of him! And nobody made a fool of him and survived to tell the tale...

However, he shook his head vehemently; no, his Master was right! How could he even dare to question his Master? If Rasputin had said the girl would be fine with him (mostly like he would be fine with the girl) so it was true! He could dislike her, but seemed now she was one of them, and therefore Kroenen would have to obey his Master and deal with the girl.

The German man shook his head, thinking; now, what would be the best method to teach her place?

* * *

**Weee, review?**


	2. The Fianna

**Author's note: **to start with, thanks for the review! :3

Secondly: I want Kroenen to bleed because, since he still has a functional «heart», that means it can pump his blood and make it circulate. Therefore the lad bleeds. :D

* * *

_The Fianna (Cruachan)_

_When evening in Eireann was gray,_

_Before the dawn went away,_

_Their footsteps on hills were heard,_

_On journey long without a word._

_From wilderland to western shore,_

_Through dragon lair and hidden door,_

_From northern waste to southern hill,_

_On darkling woods they walked at will._

_With Fionn and Oisin, dwarfe and man,_

_Bird and bough and beast in den,_

_With warrior-druid folk,_

_In secret tongues they spoke._

_A deadly sword, a healing hand,_

_Trumpet voice, a burning brand,_

_Their backs that bent 'neath their load,_

_Those warriors on the road._

* * *

Alma was so excited she couldn't sleep at all. She had no idea of what would be waiting for her in the morning, and that was even more thrilling. Unable to sleep, she got off the bed, dressed the cargos and the oversized t-shirt and made her way to the window.

It was still dark outside, even though the first sunbeams were crawling their way down the mountains around the castle. Much for the girl's displeasure, it was too dark to put on her makeup decently, so she decided to try to find a table lamp in her pocket. Instead, all she got was a flashlight; well, that would have to do.

When she was done with her makeup, she put on pair of combat boots and decided to go downstairs, to the kitchen, and wait there. The corridor and the stairs were colder than her room, but Alma was used to chilly environments. In her way to the kitchen, the only light she had was the weak light coming through the windows, but she could notice that at least one of the fireplaces of the kitchen had been lit, filling the end of the corridor with a dim orange light.

When Alma got in the kitchen, she found Kroenen; the masked man was sitting on a chair, near the fireplace, reading a book with a plain black leather cover. Alma smiled in a friendly way:

"Howya lad?" she asked. Kroenen looked away from his book and rose his eyebrows under his mask; what, in the name of all the Gods, was she doing there already? Having no answer, Alma tried again. "Good morning, how are you?"

Kroenen just nodded, slowly, and went back to his book. He used to go read to the kitchen because the light of the fireplace was way better than the torches in his dungeon, but he had this feeling that from now on he would never have peace and quiet at such early hours again. The girl remembered what Ilsa had said the night before, about Kroenen's quietude, and shrugged it off. She made her way to the cupboard and opened it, looking for something to eat:

"Where are Ilsa and Master?" she asked again. Kroenen sighed:

"Sleeping," Like normal people would do:

"Do you want breakfast too?"

"No."

"'kay,"Alma found only noodle boxes. Well, that had to do... She picked up one with chicken flavour and warmed it up in the microwave. Besides the sound of the microwave working, and of the flames in the fireplace, there was again that tick-tack of a clock. Alma made a note to self to try to find the clock. When the noodles were ready, she pulled a chair next to Kroenen and sat.

The German man closed his book, annoyed with the sudden invasion of his personal space. His personal space was a bit large, so to speak. Alma thought that, since he closed the book, he was in the mood for talking:

"So, what are we going to do today?" she asked, gesturing with the chopsticks. "Master said you are in charge of me, what can you do? What powers do you have?"

"You'll see..." Kroenen replied dryly, already planning lesson number one; he was no 'lad', whatever that meant, it sounded too familiar and he didn't want familiarity with unknown and annoying people. But Alma seemed unaware of his animosity, or maybe, thought Kroenen, she was dumb:

"Are you and Ilsa Germans? You know, your accent..." the girl asked. Rasputin was obviously Russian. Kroenen sighed again, uncomfortable, and stood up:

"Germans, yes. When you finish, go outside and wait for me," he said and left.

Alma nodded, but frowned; in spite of the accent he was fluent... but slow, and the girl had the feeling there was something wrong with his mouth.

* * *

Waiting outside, the girl started to pace back and forth, rubbing her arms. Damn, it was cold! Maybe she should try to summon a jacket... But in the exact moment that she stopped to do that, Kroenen appeared. And unlike the day before and moments ago, there were daggers strapped to his legs, and arms... and why was he carrying a pair of tonfa blades? Alma looked at him curiously, sensing a sudden danger:

"What are those for, lad?" she asked. Kroenen tilted his head, walking slowly towards her. Alma started to walk backwards:

"What are weapons for, stupid girl?" he asked in return. The girl frowned. "You asked me about my powers, remember?"

"A sword whisperer? How cool!" Alma replied in a mocking voice. "So... you're going to attack me?"

"Ja." (Yes.)

"Buuut... shouldn't we start with... some sort of warm-up first... basic moves...? You know, I never fought with weapons and-"

Kroenen lost his patience and charged, running to her; his plan was to scare her, and then massacre her until she begged him to stop. Alma widened her eyes and slipped a hand into a pocket of her cargos:

"Bloody Hell, I need a weapon!" She felt something on her hand and removed a shield from her pocket right on time to protect herself from a tonfa blade. She slipped her free hand into another pocket. "Easy lad, we're friends!" And this time she succeeded in summoning a big and heavy mace. But before she could use it Kroenen slipped a foot under her shield, hooked it on one of her ankles and pulled.

She fell backwards and let go the shield and the mace:

"You're off your nut, fella!" Alma shrieked as she fell and rolled to one side, avoiding a sharp blade. She managed to kick Kroenen in the chest. "Easy, Specky Four-Eyes!"

Kroenen kicked her ribs in return, painfully, and Alma yelped and curled. He kicked her again:

"Stupid, shallow girl! Less talking and more fighting!" he snarled. Alma managed to grab a piece of stone from a nearby ruined bench and threw it right at his masked face. He stumbled backwards and she stood up, eyes wide with fury:

"Who the fuck are YOU to talk to me like that? I just got here, did nothing to you and you already want my head!" And she shifted into a raven. Kroenen ran towards her again, blades crossed in front of his face; did she really think a mere bird could fight him? But as a raven, Alma started to fly in fast circles around him, annoying him and tiring herself. Kroenen tried to hit her with the edges of his blades, but she was too fast and the best he did was to cut some of the feathers of her tail.

Slowly, she expanded the circles, making him follow her, and when she was close enough to a buttress of the library she darted up to the sky... and Kroenen walked face-first on the solid stone wall. Taking advantage of his sudden shock, Alma landed behind him and shifted into a mare, and gave him a powerful kick on the back. Kroenen hit the wall again and let go of his tonfa blades, feeling a sharp pain crawl up his spine and spread on his sides. And that was no good pain.

Alma took the chance and kicked him again, making him kneel. Kroenen managed to turn around and saw the small black mare raise her back legs again, aiming at his face. He shook his head; he wasn't used to this! His opponents had always had a pattern; they could either fight back and offer some resistance, or they couldn't fight and simply tried to run away or tried to beg for mercy. _This_ was something completely different; the girl clearly wasn't a fighter, but there she was, fighting tooth and nail.

He managed to dodge the kick and stabbed the mare's biceps femoris muscle. Alma screamed in pain and the mare became human again. Under the mask, Kroenen's lipless mouth grinned. He stood up, ignoring the pain on his back, and kicked the girl in the stomach. She rolled away, yelping, and he watched as her limbs shifted chaotically to bird's and horse's and human's. He approached her, and was most surprised when she managed to stand up, completely human, her hair and makeup a mess. There was blood on her face; in fact, there was blood all over her, from tiny scratches to the big stab on her thigh, and a few hematomas. But the best part was that she wasn't talking; lesson one was going well.

The masked man raised the dagger above his head and Alma slipped her hand into her pocket, muttering under her breath that she needed to find a weapon, and she got another mace. She brandished it towards Kroenen's side, feeling an acute pain on her wrists and elbows, and would have hit him hard if he hadn't thrown himself on the ground. Alma lost her balance and fell, yelling a barrage of profanity. Kroenen jumped to his feet again and turned around to stab her on the stomach.

Alma decided the mace was too heavy and unpractical and rolled away, yet one of the sharp edges of the dagger gashed her side:

"Fuck you!" she exclaimed and slipped her hand into her pocket again. "Come on, a fucking weapon!" Her fingers curled around something and she pulled off... a pillow. "Stop the lights! Can't we make a pause, my own pockets are against me!"

Kroenen ignored her completely and was about to stab her again. Alma threw the pillow away and dodged, but then Kroenen knelt on the ground, keeping her in place with his legs. She tried to kick his head and hold his wrists, but he was too strong:

"Fuck you! Why are you doing this?" she hissed and turned into a raven, even though it was useless; she fell on her back and Kroenen grabbed her by the neck. He let her go when the raven suddenly grew a horse neck and head:

"You are pathetic!" he exclaimed when the raven couldn't obviously do much with such a big and heavy neck and head and stood in the same place, struggling to go back to the human form. Instead of human Alma became a mare, and tried to step over Kroenen.

But being a limp and tired mare is difficult, especially when vision is not an equine's strong point; the masked man had little difficulty in crawling out of her sight and jumping to her back. Alma bucked and reared and galloped furiously all around the courtyard, but Kroenen held firmly onto her neck and mane.

With exhaustion starting to take over, Alma shifted into human again and fell flat on her stomach, cursing out loud when Kroenen's weight pressed her even more against the ground. Yet she kept struggling and wriggling, and the German man wondered what would make her stop and admit defeat.

Seemed he had to stop her...

He pulled his arm back and aimed his dagger to her side. But in the meantime Alma managed to take an old fashioned flintlock pistol from her pocket and she pulled the trigger with a shaky hand. Kroenen felt something burning and cutting through the muscular area between his clavicle and clockwork heart, and the impact of that thing actually made him stop. He took a look at the affected area.

It would have been a silent moment, but the tick-tack sound was still there.

Alma didn't hear it this time and she widened her eyes, horrified, and threw the pistol away:

"Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh my God lad, what have I done?" she asked in a terrified whisper. Kroenen tilted his head, watching as the blood dripped from the bullet wound. "Come on, let's get you to a hospital or-"

"Are you worried?" he asked with a hint of amusement. Alma managed to get out from under him:

"I've just shot you! Of course I'm worried!"

"After what I did to you?" Kroenen slipped the dagger into the scabbard on his thigh and closed his fists. "Stupid girl, you threw everything away!" And he punched her. How could she worry? Why was she worried? She should be madly angry! She should be fighting, or scared of him and begging him to stop!

The next thing he knew they were both wrestling on the ground, Alma cursing at the top of her lungs in a language Kroenen didn't know. He was pulling her hair and she was punching his stomach, though she clearly didn't know what exactly she was doing:

"Kroenen!" a man called. A Russian man. Kroenen froze in the spot, and Alma stopped too, confused with the sudden interruption. They looked up; Rasputin and Ilsa were looking at them. The sun was already in the sky, it was a beautiful morning. Rasputin didn't seem pleased and Ilsa seemed worried. "I told you to teach Alma, not to kill her!"

"Forgive me, Master!" Kroenen whimpered, and let go the girl. "I... I got carried away."

"Come with me, you look horrible," Ilsa said and helped Alma to stand up. Rasputin noticed the stab on the girl's thigh and frowned. He and Kroenen watched in silence as Ilsa helped Alma to get inside, and then the Russian man looked at Kroenen again. He spoke, coldly. "What was that?"

"I... I discovered the situations when it is most difficult for her to control her powers," Kroenen said sheepishly; that hadn't been the plan, and lying to his Master was unforgivable, but... Rasputin crouched next to him and removed his sunglasses. Kroenen looked down, unable to look at those empty eye sockets:

"She's an ally, may you like her or not. She might talk too much, but she's too young yet. Don't you remember Ilsa? No, of course you don't; when you two met I had already educated her," Rasputin smiled dryly. "We need her! We are not that powerful anymore, we can't afford losing an ally! Are we understood, Karl?"

"Jawohl, mein Meister," (Yes sir, my Master.)

Rasputin stood up and started to walk away:

"You are bleeding. Go fix yourself; Ilsa and me are busy and you are still in charge of our little one."

Kroenen just nodded.

* * *

"Gods, what did he do to you?," Ilsa asked as Alma kicked her boots off and undressed the t-shirt, or what was left of it, and the ruined cargos:

"He asked for a fight, he got one! Fucking Specky Four-Eyes, the little plonker..." Alma grumbled, looking down and trying to evaluate the damage. "Mistook me for a sap, the unfortunate bastard..."

"You mean...?" Ilsa asked with a small smile and helped Alma into the bathroom. The girl sat on the border of the bathtub while Ilsa picked up the first-aid box from a small cabinet over the sink:

"That little idiot, he mistook me for a weak and fragile person," the young girl explained. Ilsa sighed and sat next to her and opened the box:

"Alma, Kroenen isn't used to... strangers. Kroenen and I have been Rasputin's disciples since..." The blonde-haired woman smiled. "... the 30ies. He wasn't exactly friendly when I met him, but he got used to me. Even though we never talked much."

"The 30ies?" Alma widened her eyes, still too furious and now surprised to even flinch when Ilsa started to disinfect her scratches and gashes:

"The 30ies. The Nazis were our allies. Kroenen was a very prominent man among the SS and was the head of the Thule Society. I believe you know what I'm talking about?" The young girl nodded, pressing a tissue under her bleeding nose. "He was Hitler's top assassin. Right now he must be really confused and trying to understand how come that an eighteen years-old managed to fight him back."

"How come that the Nazis lost the war if they had people like Rasputin by their side?"

"The Americans attacked us when we were trying to bring the Ogdru Jahad to this world..." Ilsa sighed sadly. "Kroenen and I were the only survivors... we've spent these last 60 years trying to find a way to bring our Master back."

"60 years with the Specky Four-Eyes, that's quite something! But you're not old!" Alma exclaimed, truly amazed. She let out a hiss when Ilsa started to stich the gash on her thigh:

"Master rewarded me with eternal youth and beauty," the woman told proudly, and looked at the girl with a smile. "He's very generous, if you serve him well."

"And Kroenen?" Because his voice sounded like a man on his 30ies. Ilsa bit her lower lip:

"I promised him I wouldn't tell..."

"And what is the Ogdru Jahad?"

* * *

Kroenen undressed the upper part of his suit and groped the exiting bullet hole, just to be sure the bullet had really came out. Some stitches would fix that.

What bothered him the most was the pain in his back; he just hoped the little Irish bastard hadn't ruined his spine... again. He quickly solved the problem of the bullet wound and then pressed carefully his fingers on the place where he had been kicked, feeling the muscle under the scarred skin. He moved, and in spite of the pain he knew there wasn't anything broken. The same went to his ribcage.

_Lucky me!_, he thought. With a sigh, he sat on the chair and placed a record on the gramophone. As _Der fliegende Holländer _set sail from the record and started to wander in the dungeon, the masked man relaxed visibly and removed his mask. He found a few scratches on it, and put it aside for a while.

He re-watched the fight in his mind; he had expected Alma to break and cry and beg for mercy... he hadn't expected her to fight back! Clumsy fighter, yes, but he had to admit she had a certain thing. All that rage, there was something in there he could explore... maybe she wasn't that shallow, afterall... He frowned; she threw all that fury away after shooting him, she had worried about him! What kind of sane creature worries for their opponent?

Another thing he had to admit; she was clever, trying to gain advantage by using her powers... Pity she was so inexperienced, otherwise it would have been a most interesting challenge. Kroenen actually chuckled, remembering when she had taken a pillow from her pocket.

Kroenen placed the mask on his face again; maybe he should give her a try, let her prove herself worthy of serving his Master. She could become quite something, with her powers decently controlled and her fighting skills refined...

He then shook his head; what was he thinking about? If Rasputin and Ilsa hadn't shown up, he probably would have killed her. Why on Earth would she allow him to get any closer again? By this time, she was probably begging Ilsa to train her...

* * *

When Kroenen arrived to the kitchen, Rasputin was already there, trying to make the microwave work. Kroenen sighed and went to help his Master with the rebellious technology. Little later Ilsa and Alma joined them; the girl was limping, but she had showered, had put makeup on her eyes and dressed the black clothes from the day before, and was all happy like she hadn't been kicked around just a few hours ago:

"Can you summon food?" Rasputin asked while they all but Kroenen ate their noodles. Alma offered him an attempt of a smile due to a cut in her lip:

"I tried once... it came out as a living hen," she explained. Ilsa clapped her hands:

"Hens lay eggs! Try again!"

"'kay. Food," Alma sighed, trying to concentrate in spite of her sore body. Kroenen tilted his head and Rasputin leaned forwards, eagerly. The girl slipped a hand into her pocket, felt something... and it was a fish, wriggling madly, trying to release its tail from her closed hand. She made a face. "Close enough..."

"Try to get another fish!" Rasputin suggested. Alma let go the fish, that jumped away towards Kroenen and died. This time the girl got an apple, and at a third try a biscuit.

When Ilsa and Rasputin finished their noodles Alma was still eating, and they left her alone with Kroenen. They said they had research to do in the library.

There was silence and the ticking sound again. Kroenen was standing with his back turned at Alma. The girl finished her noodles and stood up:

"So, what's next?" she asked. The masked man glanced over his shoulder, raised eyebrows under the mask:

"What do you mean?"

"What do we do next? Keep on fighting?"

Kroenen turned around, slowly, looking at the girl like she had grown two heads:

"I could have killed you," he stated. The girl smiled and shrugged:

"But you didn't, lad."

"You should be afraid."

"But I'm not, Specky Four-Eyes. I want to learn, I want to be part of this," Her smile was gone and she started to walk back and forth, always looking at him, her emerald green eyes standing out like glittering jewels among the black makeup. "And if I have to get my arse kicked every morning, so be it. Eventually I'll learn how to kick yours in return."

Kroenen just looked at her; indeed, she moved with the grandiosity of a queen. Maybe there was something in there. He shrugged:

"Very well, then. Come with me."

* * *

**Weeee, review?**


	3. Time Heals Nothing

**Author's note:** again, thanks for the review, and this story even got a follower! *victory dance*

I start a new semester tomorrow... ;-; so I won't be able to write as much as I'd like to, but I'll try to update at least 2 in 2 weeks.

And ta-daah, you get to know a little bit more about Alma! And about the Morrígan! But I made up the legend Kroenen's going to read. :3 Also, the Pooka: is a spirit that brings both bad and good fortune, causes some troubles and can take the appearance of a black horse.

One last thing: I couldn't find the lyrics for the song of this chapter. ._. sorry...

* * *

_Time Heals Nothing (Through the Pain)_

* * *

With a swift movement, Kroenen kicked away the large wooden board with nails. Alma fell on the ground, cursing, loose feathers floating slowly around her:

"You lasted more two minutes than last time," the masked man stated. Lying on the floor, the young girl raised a fist:

"I'm awesome..." she sighed, breathless.

They were in what had been once the dance hall of the castle. It had been two days since Kroenen and Alma had had their little fight, and the German man had decided to leave the fighting practice to some other time and train her resistance in another way; as a raven. Because being a raven seemed more useful than being a horse.

After their fight Alma had only lasted one hour as a raven. The next day she had lasted five hours in the morning and seven hours in the noon. Kroenen then decided to be a little more persuasive and, instead of walking around her, threatening to stab her if she shifted into human again, during the night he covered a wooden board with rusty nails and that morning placed it right under Alma, whose exercise consisted of being a raven and keep flying in the same spot.

It had been some glorious five hours and two minutes without hearing her voice, only a soft beating of wings.

Alma managed to stand up and looked at him, her cheeks and neck red:

"Thought you'd leave the fakir bed for me," she teased and smiled largely; the cut on her lip was almost good and she had already hid it with the black lipstick. "Thanks!"

"You aren't of much use if you can only stand five hours..." Kroenen replied. The girl slipped a hand into the pocket of her skinny jeans:

"I need water," she said and looked at what she got. "Yay! I got it right!" Alma took a few sips. "You know lad, it's more tiring to just stand there than moving around. Remember, I came from Ireland!"

"It's not tiring, Pooka," Kroenen smiled under his mask; she had decided to address him as 'Specky Four-Eyes' (and he had no idea of what was that, but he presumed it had to be related to the lenses of his mask), so he did some research and picked up 'an insult' for her too. And even though Kroenen didn't want to admit, he was actually enjoying that little game of them. "You just don't have anything else to see, or to do, and that forces you to concentrate all of your energy in this. And you're not exactly someone who can spend a long time doing the same activity. So, it easily wears you out."

"That sounds... illogical," the girl replied after she finished the bottle of water:

"Don't you get bored of just standing there?"

"Aye, I..." Alma frowned, then widened her eyes. Kroenen was still getting used to such an intense eye-colour. "Ah! I get bored! So that's why it's so difficult to focus!"

"It's not very difficult to understand that..." Kroenen hadn't take long to realise Alma got easily distracted by _everything:_

"Clever Specky Four-Eyes!" Alma smiled widely and clapped her hands happily. "Can we go lunch now?"

Kroenen just nodded and followed her. The dancing hall was in the inhabited wing of the building and it occupied the ground floor entirely. They walked side by side on the empty and long corridor:

"Why don't you eat?" Alma asked. Kroenen rolled his eyes; seemed she couldn't really shut up...:

"Not your business," he replied dryly:

"Why are you such a gimp?"

"Why can't you speak decent English?"

"Is there any way that I can turn into a pegasus?" Alma widened her emerald green eyes again. Kroenen let out a suffering sigh:

"I don't know. Ask Master."

"Oooh, that would be deadly!"

Kroenen eyed her annoyedly; silly shallow girl, with complicated makeup and alluring clothes. She would probably think her ghostly white skin would look perfect with the hellish red flames of what was yet to come...

They reached the kitchen; Rasputin and Ilsa weren't there yet. Alma slipped her hand into her pocket:

"Please give me a family-size pizza..." she begged; they had finished all the noodles the day before, at lunch, and dinner had been some really sad excuses of sandwiches that Alma had summoned. She felt something warm and removed her hand from her pocket, holding a pizza box. A really big pizza box. She did a little victory dance and looked around. "I hope they hurry up!"

"Just eat and let's go back to training!" Kroenen snarled. Alma made a face, but sat on a chair with the huge pizza box on her lap and ate two slices. She didn't exactly relish her pizza, with the German man always telling her to eat fast because there was a lot to be done, and when she finished he nearly dragged her back to the dance hall, where she turned into a raven again.

* * *

"Master, can I turn into a pegasus?" Alma asked that night, when they were having dinner. Pizza again. Rasputin, sitting on a chair, laughed. Ilsa, who was sitting on the the other chair, raised an eyebrow:

"That would be quite something!" the blonde-haired woman exclaimed, amused:

"I have no idea! But since you can shapeshift, I assume it all comes down on how well you control your powers," Rasputin answered when he stopped laughing. "How are the training sessions going, Karl?"

"She lasted one more hour than yesterday, even though her tail disappeared," Kroenen replied. He and the Irish girl were sitting on the floor. Rasputin just nodded:

"Good... With luck, within two days we'll be able to conjure a portal to take us to see some... old friends," His friendly smile was replaced by a malicious one, and his sunglasses gave him quite a spooky look. He glanced at the Irish girl. "Do you want to come with us, Alma? You might be useful."

The young girl nodded eagerly. Kroenen frowned, but said nothing.

After dinner the masked man went to his dungeon to get a book Rasputin had told him to read; it was about Irish creatures and he had found the Pooka in there. Rasputin had said the book would help him to understand the importance of Alma, importance Kroenen hadn't yet understood because, according to Rasputin, only someone who is in constant contact with the deities and spirits of the Other Realm is able to recognise such traits.

However, Kroenen thought Alma was just a shapeshifter that could take a bunch of different things from her pocket; useful?, yes... Ilsa was very good at invading people's minds and messing them, and when it came to necromancy she was much better than him... so, looking that way, Alma was quite something with her powers, she could do things not even Rasputin could.

But important? His Master was important! Ilsa was a little important. Even Kroenen was important, or at least had been important... Now Alma? Well, she was revealing to be important for Rasputin's and Ilsa's stomachs...

Kroenen grabbed the book and thought about going back to the kitchen, but he didn't want the Irish girl to find him and mock him because apparently he needed a guide book on Irish beings. So he pulled the chair closer to one of the torches, sat and started to read where he had stopped last night. It was the last page of the chapter about Irish spirits.

He turned the page for the new chapter: Irish deities. Kroenen sighed.

He turned the page and frowned, slowly, as he read _The Morrígan: the Phantom Queen, the Great Queen, the Queen of Demons_; seemed that the Morrígan was associated to battle, strife, Fate, Death and sovereignty and, being a shapeshifter, could appear as a raven, flying over the warriors on the battlefield, and had sometimes been represented as a trio: Badb, a war goddess that took the shape of a raven, Macha, a goddess of war and horses and sovereignty, and Nemain, a goddess personifying the havoc of war.

Kroenen stared at the pages he was reading, and he would have blinked slowly if he had eyelids.

Rasputin had told him to read the book, to help him understand why Alma had been a godsend.

Alma could be a raven, and a horse.

Alma, fighting tooth and nail with everything she had, inexperienced and chaotic.

He shook his head and kept reading. The legend said that the Morrígan had offered her love to a mortal man, but the mortal man cheated on her, and so the Morrígan appeared as an old woman washing bloody clothes. The man's clothes, and he died in battle. However, the Morrígan gave birth to his daughter, a human being with divine blood. The Morrígan left the baby girl among the mortals, and declared that, since the acquaintanceship between Gods and humans was getting more and more troublesome and the Gods had decided to go another Realm, the royal blood and the powers would only reveal themselves when the time for a battle between deities and humans approached.

Kroenen closed the book, shocked.

Alma was Irish... an Irish shapeshifter. And Rasputin had told him to read that book.

Alma, the annoying shallow girl was descendant of a goddess! So much power in such a waste of human being!

* * *

A few hours before the dawn, Kroenen went to the kitchen. Little later, Alma joined him:

"Are you grand, Specky Four-Eyes?" she saluted with a huge smile. Kroenen clenched his jaw; the elaborate black makeup, a black leather corset, black skinny jeans and black platform heels. The shoes made her as tall as the German man. She wore a simple ring bracelet in her right wrist, while her other wrist was covered in large metal bracelets with Celtic knots. She wore no rings, just the one of the ring bracelet. She had a small triskle necklace:

"You should wear something... more practical..." the masked man grumbled:

"I'd like a sandwich. And a glass of orange juice," the girl said and slipped her hands into her pockets. She got a sandwich and a cup of tea. With a shrug, she sat on the empty chair in front of Kroenen's and crossed a leg. "This is practical, lad."

"You can barely breath in that thing!" Kroenen replied, referring to the corset. "And how can someone walk with those things?"

"Said the bogger with the breastplate. You know lad..." She took a big bite on the sandwich. "... steampunk is cool and all, but you're not steampunk enough to be cool. We could add some gauntlets to you, or greaves, and-"

"But can it be possible that you only think about clothes and looks, Pooka?" the masked man asked with disbelief. But again, what should he expect?

Alma's smile died, slowly, and she shook her head:

"You got me wrong, lad. I just like to walk around perfect, it's not like I'm showing off," the girl explained, and ate the rest of her sandwich in silence. Kroenen wasn't convinced, even though the «walk around perfect» part made his clockwork heart sting a little. In the silence, Alma heard again the tick-tack sound of a clock, and she decided to focus and use her accurate sense of hearing to locate _exactly _the source of the sound. It was Kroenen. Maybe he had a watch with him.

But she also felt, for the first time, his animosity. He wasn't just being boring or quiet or weird, like Ilsa said he was. He didn't like her at all, so the fight hadn't been just to scare her, he had really meant it.

That hurt.

* * *

Kroenen stopped in front of her, in the middle of the dance hall. She had been quiet. Too quiet, she was probably looking for a strange name to call him. The first sunbeams of the morning were not strong enough to light up the dance hall, and in the middle of the dim light Alma seemed to have an eerie glow. Kroenen crossed his arms:

"What we are going to do is trying to get you used to have someone else in your mind. Master will probably need to see through your eyes, for our mission," Alma just nodded, looking down. Kroenen reached out to her and placed a gloved hand over her head. "Ready?"

"Guess so," the girl replied. Kroenen frowned, but decided to ignore her and got in her mind. He saw himself through her eyes and realised she was still standing firm, which was good.

But suddenly, he heard something. There were screams and cries coming from the back of her mind, and he felt she was trying to hide it. But the screaming and crying grew stronger, because she wasn't alone in her body anymore and she didn't have enough strength to fight off her own memories and keep herself conscious and from falling to her knees. And before Kroenen or Alma could stop it, the memories broke free in her mind.

The German man found himself in a small church made of stone. He was seeing everything through Alma's eyes, and there was a priest holding a cross right before her, a pair of rude hands holding her arms and a third person. That third person was inflicting pain on her, and she was crying. Kroenen looked down at her arms, where the pain was coming from, and gaped in sheer horror; there were wings instead of arms, and the third person was pulling off handfuls of black feathers.

Everything went black.

Now Kroenen was in a small room, looking outside. He saw children gathered in a small group, playing and talking. A schoolbus came to pick up the children. Alma's eyes filled with tears and he felt sick, but oh so sick! And so lonely, and so angry!

Everything went black.

Kroenen was before an old woman, who was sitting on a stool in front of a fireplace, sewing a dress. The woman was dressed in black, perfectly camouflaged in the dark room they were in:

"You are a special lass, Alma. Always keep that in mind and be proud of yourself!" the old woman said, smiling kindly but not looking away from her work. "You surely have fairy blood!"

"But it only brings me troubles..." the little girl replied, with the saddest voice in the world.

Everything went black and Kroenen was back to the dancing hall, and he received a powerful and very painful punch on the stomach. He stumbled backwards, confused, and noticed Alma staring at him, eyes so wide they seemed about to jump out. And she looked wrath incarnate. Her chest was rising and falling quickly, tightened in the corset:

"You fucking gobshite, fucking pox, fucking bollix!" she hissed angrily. Kroenen tried to catch his breath again:

"Easy, Pooka!" he exclaimed. Her neck reddened:

"POOKA, YOUR FUCKING MA!" And she ran at him, fists closed. Kroenen calmly held her wrists, but he still got kicked on his shins and on his middle, and she tried really hard to step on him with those terrifying platform heels, but he managed to dodge. Seeing she couldn't attack him like that, Alma tried to shift into a raven, or into a mare, but she was too nervous to focus, so the best she did was growing a beak and a horse tail that disappeared after some struggle with the masked man.

The young girl ended up on her knees, shaking and cursing in a language Kroenen didn't know. He knelt in front of her, still holding her wrists:

"What was that, Alma?" he asked, truly concerned, surprising himself for such. Silence. The girl finally looked at him, her eyes looking like she would burst into tears, but all she did was taking a deep, slow breath:

"Not your business," she replied calmly. Kroenen frowned lightly:

"It was not my intention..." he mumbled. Alma ignored him and stood up, like nothing had happened. Kroenen just looked at her; now he was curious, he wanted to know what had happened to her. Maybe she wasn't that shallow.

Maybe it was just a mask.

The perspective that Alma could be a tormented spirit like him made him jump to his feet and nearly hold her hands, but he managed to refrain himself. First, there couldn't possibly be another tormented spirit like him, it just couldn't. Secondly... did he really think that all of a sudden the girl he had judged and despised would trust him? Of course she wouldn't, the damage was already done.

Seemed that was the only thing Kroenen was good at.

He shook his masked head and sighed, looking at Alma, standing right there in front of him with her arms crossed, and no smile on her lips:

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you," he apologised. "Do you want to stop?"

"No, I'm fine. I don't want to mess up the mission," the girl replied. "Just try not to nose around my stuff, right?"

"Right," And Kroenen placed his hand on her head again, and got in her mind.

This time the screaming and crying was nowhere to be heard. Seemed Alma had managed to push all of those memories to the back of her mind again and silence them. Kroenen sighed, seeing himself through her eyes, feeling her rage, her sadness. _Can you hear me?_, he asked:

"Aye," the girl replied. _Walk to the window._, he ordered. And she started to move, and he tried the really awkward feeling of walking with majestic and confident and elegant strides with such horribly huge heels. She stopped at the window and he could see the foggy Moldavian morning outside. In spite of the fog, the sun insisted in making itself noticeable. _Walk backwards._, and she did. _Run._, and she did, and Kroenen wondered what kind of sorcery granted her the ability to run with those shoes. _Go to the corridor., _and she went. _Stop. Wait there for me._, and he left her mind.

Alma felt a little dizzy, but she managed to stand still. Kroenen joined her little later, walking with his hands behind his back:

"How do you feel?" he asked:

"Good," she replied. No smile, no clapping her hands, no annoying chat, not saying she was awesome. Kroenen just nodded:

"It is still early to lunch. You... did well, so, I think it's enough of training for today," he said.

"'kay," And Alma walked away, her waist-length black hair fluttering as she moved.

After locking the door of her room, Alma allowed herself to cry a little, doing her best not to ruin her perfect makeup. She opened one of the doors of the wardrobe and looked herself in the full-length mirror on the inside of the door.

Kroenen almost made her drop the mask she had so carefully made. A mask of confidence, of easy and friendly smiles no matter what, of beauty and charm and apparent normality. That were all the requirements to make friends, right? Why didn't it work with Kroenen?

She shook her head, closed the wardrobe door and went to sit at the dressing table to fix her makeup; at least Ilsa was nice, and Rasputin. Seemed Kroenen was the only one who didn't like her, but she could live with that. He was just another one.

There, perfect makeup again. She sighed; she needed something cool to do:

"Can I please, please, pretty please have a sewing machine just like the one I had in Ireland?" she asked and slipped her hand into her pocket. Her pocket was generous and gave her a better sewing machine than the one she had. Alma smiled, enthusiastic, and placed it over her bed. "Can I have a fabric pencil?" And she slipped her hand into her pocket again, and pulled a white fabric pencil off her pocket.

She decided not to abuse her luck and sudden concentration and decided to just sit on the bed and wait for lunch time.

* * *

Rasputin didn't need to be the greatest occultist of all to know something had happened between Kroenen and Alma; she was quiet and everytime she had addressed the German man she had used his last name, not the funny nickname, and the German man wasn't huffing and puffing, nor muttering 'Damned Pooka, takes an eternity to eat...' under his breath.

Ilsa knew something had happened too, and her sympathy went straight to the girl. When they finished lunch, she stood up and stretched her hands to Alma:

"You know, it's a little unfair that Master and I are always depending on you to eat something. Let's go shopping, the two of us! There's a small village nearby!" she suggested. Alma smiled and stood up too:

"Deadly!" she exclaimed.

They left the kitchen. Rasputin turned slowly to Kroenen, and the masked man hurried to explain himself:

"There were some memories disturbing her, I had no intention of-" he started, but Rasputin raised a hand and he shut up instantly:

"Whatever you did, undo! I can't afford losing her, she's going to be too powerful!" the Russian man hissed angrily. "In the name of the Gods, you seem to be the teenage one! You have just been giving me problems, Karl! Where is the well-behaved man you used to be?"

Kroenen just looked down, utterly ashamed. His Master was right. Even though his Master would never understand...

He looked up again, shyly:

"I found the chapter... about the Morrígan... is she...?" he asked sheepishly. Rasputin nodded. "There was an old woman, in her memories... she said Alma had fairy blood..."

"I know, I saw that as well. When Ireland was christianised, the ancient Gods were degenerated to fairies, so the people could still believe in them without being heretics," Rasputin stood up and began to walk away. "The Nazis did a good job with you, Karl; Deutschland über alles (Germany above all), wasn't it? But the Nazis are no more, and we have new allies now. You should broaden your horizons," The Russian man stopped at the door. "I have work to do in the library. Do you want to help me?"

But Kroenen knew Rasputin was just mocking him. The German man looked down, at his boots:

"No Master, I am going to broaden my horizons," he muttered.

* * *

**Weeee, review?**


	4. Bis hier her

_Bis hier her (Sturmwehr)_

_Der Zahn der Zeit, der nagt an mir,_

_doch ein Ende noch längst nicht im Visier._

_Noch strotz ich vor Kraft und Energie,_

_verfalle noch nicht in Lethargie._

_Auf zu neuen Taten, ich bin bereit._

_Immer geradeaus, mich hält keiner auf,_

_immer volle Kraft und keinen Leerlauf._

_Ich ecke oft an in eurer heilen Welt,_

_mir ist es völlig egal, ob es euch missfällt._

_Ich nutze die Stunde, die Gelegenheit._

_Bis hier her war es ein langer Weg,_

_mit euch an meiner Seite ein wahres Privileg,_

_wir gehören zusammen, gehen durch dick und dünn,_

_so wird es immer sein._

_Freunde für die Ewigkeit sind niemals allein._

_Oftmals scheint es so, als würd' die Zeit still stehen,_

_wenn wir die Bilder von damals wieder vor uns sehen._

_Bilder verblichen und verstaubt,_

_doch wir haben immer fest an unsere Freundschaft geglaubt._

_Ziehen die Jahre auch an uns vorbei._

_Bis hier her war es ein langer Weg,_

_mit euch an meiner Seite ein wahres Privileg,_

_wir gehören zusammen, gehen durch dick und dünn,_

_so wird es immer sein._

_Freunde für die Ewigkeit sind niemals allein._

_Und wenn einer stirbt, stirbt auch ein Teil von mir,_

_Und sterbe ich, bin ich ganz tief in dir._

_Bis hier her war es ein langer Weg,_

_mit euch an meiner Seite ein wahres Privileg,_

_wir gehören zusammen, gehen durch dick und dünn,_

_so wird es immer sein._

_Freunde für die Ewigkeit sind niemals allein._

* * *

Kroenen spent the rest of the noon closed in his dungeon and he didn't show up for dinner.

He was too busy watching the shiny blood on his pale scarred skin; it looked so beautiful in the soft light coming from the torches! And the pain of the recent cuts on his arm felt so good, so relaxing he would have forgotten his Irish problem, but he was listening to _Tristan und Isolde_, and Isolde was an Irish princess.

With a sigh, he started to clean and wrap a bandage around his new cuts, thinking; he still had a vivid memory of the pain and sadness and rage he had felt while inside Alma's mind, and how he understood that! What if he told her he could understand, would she smile and call him 'Specky Four-Eyes' again? Now that she wasn't friendly anymore the masked man understood he had started to appreciate that attention. Not much!, just a little... Ilsa had never tried that hard to interact with him. In fact, no one had since he had became... what he was now.

When he was finished with the bandages he dressed the upper part of his suit again, feeling like he always felt when the soothing throbbing of recent cuts faded away; empty. And wrong, but so wrong! We wrapped his arms around his torso, rocking himself softly at the speed of the music; would Alma understand him? Kroenen allowed himself to imagine how would it be like to be hugged, and not having to pay a ridiculous amount of money for a little bit of company... that had always ended up with a dead body...:

"Westwärts schweift der Blick; ostwärts streicht das Schiff. Frisch weht der Wind der Heimat zu: mein irisch Kind, wo weilest du? Sind's deiner Seufzer Wehen, die mir die Segel blähen? Wehe, wehe, du Wind! Weh, ach wehe, mein Kind! Irische Maid, du wilde, minnige Maid!" (Westwards the gaze wanders; eastwards skims the ship. Fresh the wind blows towards home: my Irish child, where are you now? Is it your wafting sighs that swell my sails? Blow, blow, you wind! Ah, alas, my child! Irish girl, you wild, adorable girl!) Kroenen sang along with the record, absently. His voice was one of a baritone, way deeper than his original angelic boy treble voice, but he still found it quite audible, even though he couldn't pronounce correctly some of the words at the required speed. But his voice died the moment he realised what he had just sang.

That had to be a very heavy conscience for displeasing his Master...

He didn't even like Alma... at all. He was just curious, now.

Kroenen sighed and crossed his arms over the table, and rested his masked face on them; helpless, desperate little creature, just imagine if she could understand him...

_Well,_ the German man smiled bitterly, _I have to talk to her anyway..._

In the next morning he went to the kitchen before the dawn, like he usually did. But Alma didn't show up.

* * *

Kroenen hadn't show up for dinner. Alma supposed he was in his little dark lair, somewhere in the basement, doing something way more interesting than having to put up with her. She shrugged, decided not to ruin her good mood again. Shopping with Ilsa had been fun, especially because of the language; Ilsa knew a little Russian, but Moldavian wasn't exactly Russian, so it had been quite an adventure for the two of them, Ilsa making sure no one was watching and Alma trying to summon a Moldavian-German dictionary.

In the end, they had bought noodles again, and a few fruits and bottles of water and wine for Rasputin.

At night the girl couldn't sleep, haunted again by the things she wanted to forget. The lack of sleep would give her ugly dark rings under her eyes. And all because of that bloody German man!

So, unable to sleep, Alma decided to make a dress. She changed from her pajamas to black skinny jeans, a black underbust corset and a white blouse with a square neck. Then the young girl combed her hair and made a long side braid on her black hair:

"A roll of black fabric. Cotton, polyester, whatever..." the girl said and slipped her hand into her pocket. Little later she was sitting at the dressing table, aiming the flashlight at the fabric and marking something with the tailoring pencil. And after that she started to mark with pins. And when there was enough sunlight she sat at the window and started to cut, singing lowly.

And she was so entertained that she nearly jumped out of her skin when someone knocked at the door. Before she could ask who was it (maybe it was Ilsa), the door was open and Kroenen peeked inside:

"Can I...?" he asked, and looked curiously at the messy room; pieces of fabric everywhere, pins, rulers, a lonely tailoring pencil on the dressing table, a sewing machine...? Alma focused on her work again:

"Are we going to train?" she asked. Kroenen decided to step into the room and closed the door after him. She didn't object, so that could only mean the situation wasn't that bad. He walked towards her, slowly:

"I would like to talk to you. And you missed breakfast," He sat at the window, in front of her. Alma stopped cutting the fabric and frowned:

"Now that you mention... I missed breakfast," she mumbled, but shrugged. Alma put her work aside and looked at him; no smile, but also no makeup. She still looked impressive, though, and Kroenen found himself having a strange difficulty in choosing the right words to start the conversation. He wasn't used to talk with someone else about personal matters, so that was quite a challenge. He sighed:

"Am I not the 'Specky Four-Eyes' anymore?" he asked, and mentally cursed himself for such a childish and stupid and utterly ridiculous question. Alma frowned:

"You don't even like being called that..." she replied, and studied Kroenen for a while, running her green eyes up and down his body; he looked tense and uncomfortable, but she couldn't feel any bad vibe. And Alma felt he was tired, and there were other things she couldn't identify, but none of them was harmful to her:

"It's just that I'm not used to it," Kroenen explained. "Did... did Ilsa tell you anything? About me."

"Only that the two of you met Master in the 30ies, that you were a fierce important man in the SS and Hitler's top assassin," And she hurried to explain, because he tilted his head to one side, confused. "Fierce means «very»."

"I was an Obersturmbannführer (lieutenant colonel) and was given an Iron Cross!" the German man told proudly, and mentally thanked Ilsa for having kept her promise of saying nothing about him. "So, you can understand it's very... unusual to have someone addressing to me like that."

"I won't do it anymore, don't worry," Alma said. Kroenen's shoulders sagged, and he didn't look that big and large anymore:

"Why?"

"Because you're not my friend, and I really don't believe you woke up this morning and decided to befriend me!"

"I didn't wake up this morning and decided to befriend you, I've been thinking about that yesterday and the whole night!" Kroenen excused with a hint of frustration. Alma just narrowed her eyes and studied him with the intention to _feel _something... but again, no bad vibes. She raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms:

"And why is that, Kroenen? Why would you want to befriend a stupid and shallow girl?"

"I have just realised you might not be shallow, like I thought. I saw those memories, I felt them; I can understand."

"Oh can you?" Alma grinned sadly. "Can you understand what is being called a freak by your own family? Can you understand why did my parents isolate me, and didn't even allow me to go to the school? Can you understand what it feels like to feel wrong being yourself? Can you?" she hissed, looking straight to the lenses of his mask, looking for his eyes. But the reflection of the light didn't let her find what she was looking for.

Kroenen let her words sink, and if it wasn't for the rigorous clockwork, his heart would have started to run. He wasn't a stupid man, and he understood that the Gods hadn't only granted Rasputin with a new follower... but had granted him too with someone who could become a friend. A friend, he had wished one for all his life. With steady hands, he removed the glove of his mechanical hand:

"I know what it feels like to be called a freak. By everyone," and he removed the glove of his natural, scarred hand. "I know what forced solitude is."

Alma widened her eyes, shocked, and reached out to hold his hands and take a better look at them, but she hesitated. Kroenen tensed:

"That's why you wear those gloves all the time?" the young girl asked, looking at his masked face. He nodded; hiding was one of the reasons. "Can I... can I touch you?"

"You have germs!" The words came out of his mouth like bullets coming from a machine-gun, it was stronger than him. With a gasp, he tensed even more, afraid he had done something wrong again. But Alma laughed, and rested her hands on her legs:

"That's why you wear the gloves and that mask, too?" she asked. Of course he had to be afraid of germs and infections, just look at all those scars... and where were his fingernails? Something really bad must have happened to him! Kroenen nodded again, quickly; that was one of the reasons too. He slipped the gloves back to his hands again and crossed his arms, and noticed she wasn't looking so aggressive anymore. "What happened to you?"

Concluding he wanted her attention and company, coming to her room to talk to her and showing her his hands was a LOT from Kroenen; he couldn't simply tell her right away exactly what had happened, that would require a whole different mental preparation! And for now, that moment existed only in his imagination, it couldn't even be possible! But he knew that, if he wanted her to tell him what had happened to her, he would need to tell her what had happened to him. And he could say he knew Alma well enough to tell that she was going to act exactly like that.

So he had to tell her. Even if just a little. And Kroenen found himself eager to do such, but first he needed to be sure she would at least understand part of why he had done what he did. So he crossed his arms and leaned back, resting his back against the wall:

"Ladies first," he said. Alma narrowed her eyes and studied him a last time; she would never talk to someone again without first sensing the true intentions of her interlocutor. Again, she found no bad vibes. So she just nodded, and the perspective that the masked man could really understand her made her feel a little excited, but just in case she decided to be cautious:

"I'm just telling you about those memories," the girl said. Kroenen nodded. "The one in the church; I was three years-old, that was when my powers showed up for the first time," She sighed, and looked down. "I was playing in the kitchen, with my mother, when suddenly my arms turned into raven wings. My mother screamed like a banshee and my father came running to see what had happened, and he went completely hysterical too! I started to feel really scared, not because my arms were gone, but because of my parents; I could feel their fear like it was my own!" Alma paused and looked at the masked man again. "So they took me to the church, because they were super catholics, and asked the priest to exorcise me! What you saw was a little bit of the exorcising. That did nothing to me, I felt nothing before that stupid cross and the priest's words had no effect, because my power... is mine. It's in my blood, I feel it, I know I was born with it, it's not the christian god or his son that can take it away from me!"

"Your power comes from an age of Gods older than the christian god..." Kroenen muttered. He knew he couldn't tell her exactly what she was, his Master was the one who should do that, but he couldn't help it, he had to say something. Alma looked at him curiously. "But I'm no good christian, so..."

"Neither am I," the girl replied. She sighed. "My father was holding me. My mother was so desperate she was pulling off all my feathers. That really hurt... and the whole situation was terrifying. Anyway... my arms went back to normal and my parents were all happy, they thought the priest had done a miracle," Alma smiled sadly, looking at her perfect nails painted in black. "My powers showed up again a few months later; I grew a horse tail. Well, a foal tail... and this time my parents freaked out completely, but fortunately didn't take me to the church again nor pulled off hair from my tail. They decided to hide me from the world, because surely I was something demoniac and absolutely embarrassing. That second memory you saw..." Alma looked at him again and wrapped her arms around herself. "I was four years-old. I wanted to be like the other children, play with them and go to the school... At least my parents taught me to read, and write, and do some really basic maths, and they bought me tons of books, so that I would be entertained learning and not trying to flee from my room," This time Alma smiled proudly. "I know a lot of things, and I learned it all from the books. Later I discovered a whole new world talking to other ravens, a world that sounded much more appealing to me."

So, that was why the girl was so... so talkative, and put so much effort in looking good, and always said she was good, and was so easily distracted by everything. Kroenen frowned:

"You spent nearly eighteen years closed in your room?" he asked. Alma bit her lower lip, still smiling:

"At first, yes... but when I figured out how to stay as a raven for a while I managed to flee by the window and stay outside in the woods for a while. That started to happen when I was fifteen. My parents never thought about the window because my room was in the attic, that's in the third floor, and they never saw me shift completely. Or maybe they thought they could scare me by... making me feel such a freak," her smile died with this last part:

"They scared you," Kroenen concluded. Alma couldn't help but nod, but then she shook her head:

"Anyway... The old woman was my grandma. That memory was from when I was seven years-old. When grandma found out about me she was the only one from the family that didn't freak out, and sometimes she would take me to her house. It wasn't far from my parent's. She always told me I had fairy blood, and that women in our family had always had fairy blood, but I was the first one to actually show something. And she always told me to be proud of who I am-"

"-even though that's difficult sometimes," Kroenen finished for her. Oh, the face Alma would make the moment she knew she was much more than a mere fairy would be priceless! Alma frowned, but nodded:

"My grandma died when I was ten..." she told, and with that she was done telling Kroenen things about her. The pain was there again, and all the memories were running wild in her mind. She felt her eyes tear up and she looked outside, trying to control herself:

"At least you had someone to understand you... even if just for a while," the masked man grumbled. He offered her a gloved hand, his natural hand, and much for his surprise Alma took it. "You can cry. I won't tell anyone. And your makeup won't be a mess because you have none right now..."

Alma offered him a nervous smile, and allowed a few tears to run down her face before forcing herself to stop. Kroenen rolled his eyes and squeezed her hand, softly. She squeezed him back:

"Of course you're too proud to cry in front of me, aren't you Pooka?" he asked. This time she smiled widely, a genuine Irish smile:

"Bet I am, lad..." she straightened her back and dried the tears to the back of her free hand. "Your turn."

"Jawohl..." Kroenen let go of her hand and interlaced his fingers on his lap. "So... as a child I was an opera singer," Alma raised her eyebrows and smiled enthusiastically. "Modesty aside, I was quite talented. I toured the capitals of Europe and that, plus all the rehearsal work, obviously allowed me no time for school, nor friends, nor family. I had a tutor to give me lessons, and even though there were a few children of my age whose parents worked with the opera company and traveled with me... I simply had no time for playing," Kroenen grinned sadly under his mask; he never understood what was so funny about running around and hiding and pranking people... but now that he looked back, he would have liked to try it. "But children grow, and I was no exception, and my voice deepened... and that was the end of my career."

"Oh, stupid people!" Alma interrupted indignantly:

"I never forgave myself for failing like that..." he mumbled. "Besides my very awkward social skills, I was absolutely terrified of germs. Still am..." he grimaced under his mask, remembering everytime someone made fun of his obsession of wearing gloves all the time and decided to pick on him for that. He shook his head and an uncomfortable shiver ran up his spine. "Never forgave myself for that too..."

"No one can be perfect..." Alma said, trying to comfort him. She was startled when he stood up suddenly and raised his voice, utterly offended:

"I can be perfect! I am on the way to perfection!" He removed the glove from his mechanical hand and nearly shoved it on Alma's face. "There, perfection! And I made it myself one-handed!" He placed the mechanical hand on her head and forced her to get closer to his chest. "Do you hear this?'"

"It's... a watch...?" Alma asked, confused with his sudden passionate speech. He laughed:

"It's my heart! It's perfection! It's a clockwork heart, it will never stop, never fail!"

"It's a _what_?" The young girl widened her eyes and gaped, looking at his masked face. She wasn't horrified... just... shocked. Kroenen understood he had betrayed himself and had talked too much. He sighed:

"It's a clockwork heart. This..." He removed the hand from her head and touched the wind-up key implanted in his chest. Alma took her hands to her face; she hadn't even noticed the wind-up key in his breastplate, nor the mechanisms. In fact, she hadn't really cared about Kroenen's gloomy appearance:

"How come that I didn't see this before?" she whispered, and approached her head to his chest so much her nose nearly touched the breastplate. Kroenen tensed, suddenly uncomfortable with such proximity, and for moments he prepared himself for her obvious reaction, that would be freak out:

"Because you are an airhead..." he mumbled:

"This thing's so beautiful!" Alma looked up at him. Kroenen would have widened his eyes, if he had eyelids. The girl offered him a small smile. "How did you...?"

"Doesn't it... scares you, disgusts you?"

"Kinda creepy but... I understand, I guess..." The girl shrugged. "You said you never forgave yourself for failing... I bet that way you won't fail again. And those scars in your hand... you did that yourself, didn't you?" Kroenen nodded, slowly. "Did you try to ease pain with another kind of pain? I've read about that once."

"It's... more complicated than that... but yes, we can say I eased pain... with pain," The pain of loneliness comforted by a sharp caress.

Alma just nodded, and started to rock herself back and forth. Kroenen sat at the window again:

"How did you... replace your heart?" she insisted:

"With science and black magic."

"So you're a zombie-cyborg?" Alma frowned. "How old are you...?"

"I am a nearly perfect man," Kroenen grumbled, annoyed. "I was born in 1897, do the maths. If you can..." he added and smiled under his mask. Alma made a face, then widened her eyes:

"Ask me bollocks!"

"And that's enough of story-telling for today," the masked man said, even though he was feeling... light. What was this lightness? Had it to do with the fact that, unlike Ilsa, who screamed and tried by all means stop him to do what he had to do, Alma had just shrugged and said «I understand, I guess...»?

And Kroenen knew she did, at least a bit of it. And that was something. He stood up and made his way to the door:

"We're going to train after lunch," he informed her. "I'll be in your mind with you as a raven."

"Aye, Specky Four-Eyes," Alma replied with a smile. Kroenen glanced over his shoulder before closing the door softly after him.

* * *

**Weeeee, review?**


	5. Puritania

_Puritania (Dimmu Borgir)_

_We do away with your kind_

_Countdown to exterminate the human race_

_4, 3, 2, 1_

_Let chaos entwine_

_On defenseless soil_

_Remove errors of man_

_And sweep all the weakening kind_

_I am war, I am pain_

_I am all you've ever slain_

_I am tears in your eyes_

_I am grief, I am lies_

_Bygone are tolerance_

_And presence of grace_

_Scavengers are set out_

_To cleanse the human filth parade_

_I am pure, I am true_

_I am all over you_

_I am laugh, I am smile_

_I am the earth defiled_

_I am the cosmic storms_

_I am the tiny worms_

_I am fear in the night_

_I am bringer of the light_

_Earth successfully erased._

* * *

The next morning Rasputin, Ilsa, Kroenen and Alma were gathered in the dinning hall. Ilsa was drawing a circle with runes on the floor, with white chalk, and Rasputin was holding a big and old-looking book with a black leather cover half-eaten by moths and Ilsa's bag. Alma was watching, bombarding Kroenen with questions about the runes, and the utility of that circle, and about the book their Master was holding, and why the heck did he have his gramophone and records in his backpack. The girl was wearing black skinny cargos, a black hoodie and her heavy combat boots, had her makeup on and her hair was tied in a long pony-tail. She had a backpack too, because during breakfast the masked man had nagged her with a lecture about the importance of a backpack with the necessary to survival. Kroenen, standing next to her, was actually patient to explain her everything. And he had to admit it felt good to have someone wanting to learn from him.

When the circle of runes was ready, Rasputin, Ilsa and Kroenen stepped into it and held hands, with the black book in the middle of the circle, and Rasputin said something in an ancient language. A purple flame rose from the book, slowly, and grew as tall as Rasputin:

"It will take us to our enemy," the Russian man explained, then he handed Ilsa her bag and looked at Alma with a smile. "Ladies first."

Ilsa, holding hands with Alma, walked through the purple flame. Rasputin looked at Kroenen:

"I see you and the little one had a talk," he commented, raising an eyebrow. Kroenen nodded. "Good. So you will make us a queen out of our talkative and friendly teenager?"

"I will, Master," Kroenen promised. Rasputin just nodded and walked through the purple flame. Kroenen followed him.

* * *

_Present day, New York, abandoned subway area_

Alma and Ilsa stepped out of the purple flame and found themselves in a dark and small room, and there was no light excepting the purple flame:

"So, how does it feel to travel through a teleportation portal?" Ilsa asked the young girl. Alma clapped her hands excitedly:

"Much better than having to fly all the way! It's so cool, it feels like I've just walked through a door, but a door to a completely different place!" she replied, looking around. Ilsa raised an eyebrow; Alma's ghostly pale skin seemed to glow weakly in the dark, and so did her emerald green eyes. Rasputin and Kroenen joined them:

"Here we are, New York city!" the Russian man exclaimed with cruel satisfaction. Kroenen looked around and concluded he liked that little dark place. Ilsa, on the other hand, was most displeased:

"Where are we?" she asked. "I don't like this place."

"This is an abandoned subway area," Rasputin explained patiently. "To be more precise, an old office. There are more two offices in this floor. Two stories below there's a furnace area, and there must be somewhere a showering area with a locker room. This will be our headquarters in New York."

Ilsa sighed sadly. Suddenly, the walls and the floor started to shake lightly and they heard a faint sound of breaks. Alma arched an eyebrow:

"Close to the actual subway area...?" she asked. Rasputin nodded:

"Yes, so that it would be easier for you to come in and out. Karl..." The Russian man looked at the German man. "you and Ilsa are going to make sure we are all by ourselves. Alma, little one, you are going in your first mission."

"My life is now 100% cooler!" the young girl chirped happily and gave Kroenen her backpack. Kroenen and Ilsa left the old office, leaving Alma and Rasputin alone. The Russian man started to walk in circles around her:

"Kroenen was already in your mind, am I right?" he asked. Alma nodded:

"Yesterday he did that while I was a raven."

"Excellent! Now, little one..." and Rasputin removed his sunglasses, and even in the dark the young girl noticed his eyes were missing. She didn't flinch, though, not really disturbed by that. "You are going to turn into a raven, and let me get in your mind. Then you'll find a way out and fly over the city, and you have to find me the Machen Library."

"But how am I going to know how to get out of here?"

"You might not know, but a raven does," Rasputin assured.

With a nod, Alma shifted into a raven. Rasputin then knelt and gently placed a finger over the raven's head. The raven shook its head, suddenly dizzy; Rasputin seemed to need more room than Kroenen, and somehow he felt heavy in her mind. But she managed to stand still, and as a raven.

The Russian man stood up, seeing the surroundings through Alma's eyes. _Fly, little one. _he commanded, and the raven did. Alma had no idea of where to go, she just flew. The abandoned subway area was a maze of rooms and corridors and tunnels, without any light. Yet after a while a soft breeze stirred the raven's wings, and the raven flew to find the source of it. At the end of a long tunnel, with a few puddles on the stone floor, there was a small hole in the wall, a hole big enough for a raven.

Flying through the hole, Alma found herself outside, in some poorly forested outskirts of the city. She glanced behind, to the large wall, half-hidden in dirt and undergrowth like it was the slope of a small hill. There was the loud sound of cars and she followed it, and soon the raven was flying above the down town of New York.

If Rasputin wasn't in her mind, Alma would have taken some time to admire all of that; such a big place, with so many people, and so many cars! That was so different from the small Irish world she knew, and so different from the places she had seen when flying all the way from Ireland to Moldavia! But now she had no time for exploring, and her raven eyes saw exactly what Rasputin was looking for; the library. The raven flew in circles above it, then around it, studying it with its clever eyes and even stopping at the windows, allowing the Russian man to see everything he needed.

_Get inside_._, _Rasputin's voice said in her mind, and Alma flew above the building once more, until she found several openings of air ducts in the roof. She peeked into one of them, tilting her head, and dived into it. She flew for a long time, and found no exit, so she had to go back. That happened more four times, until finally, at the fifth try, she found a hole in the air duct and managed to fly through it, loosing a few feathers in the process. Alma found herself in a big and luxurious room, with big Egyptian statues between bookcases full of books dedicated to the Ancient Egypt. _It's not this room._, Rasputin said, and Alma flew to the door as close as possible to the ceiling, so that no one would see her. After some more failed attempts, she finally found the room Rasputin was looking for, and he told her to come back.

So the raven flew all the way back to the air duct, got in again, and then she was finally flying over New York again, back to the semi-hidden wall that looked like a slope. The sun was setting, which meant she had taken some time to find exactly what Rasputin wanted... and she was starting to feel tired. Very tired. She shook her head, forcing herself to focus, and noticed she was alone in her body again.

That meant she could curse at will the long way back, without worrying about Rasputin hearing her. She also cursed her body, that was starting to feel too heavy for her wings.

She found the hole in the hidden wall and got in, but she wasn't sure if she would make it as a raven to the room where Rasputin was. She felt her tail disappear, and her body felt too big for her wings.

And Alma fell on the cold stone floor, breathing hard and with wide eyes. She laid there for a while, catching her breath, until she managed to stand up, leaning against the wall:

"Now I just have to find the bloody way back, yay..." she grumbled, sore and with her heart racing madly in her chest.

* * *

"I don't like this place..." Ilsa said as she and Kroenen left Rasputin and Alma behind. "Do you have a flashlight?"

"Do I look like someone who carries a flashlight?" the masked man asked with amusement. He liked that place, and the dark offered him no problems; he was so impregnated with black magic that dark environments made him feel like a fish in the water. The shadows were his best friends, where he could hide and move without being seen. Walking behind him, Ilsa stumbled on a broken paving stone:

"How I miss Alma... She'd come on handy right now," the blonde-haired woman sighed sadly. "What do you think of her?"

"Fine," Kroenen knew Ilsa was guiding herself through him, so just for the sake of it he decided to climb a wall... and seconds later heard Ilsa bumping on it. He laughed as the woman cursed. "I'm sorry, I won't do it again."

"Stupid..." Ilsa grumbled. Kroenen jumped to the floor and walked away, and Ilsa trotted after him. "You didn't seem to like her. She was quite angry after you had that fight... poor girl, you didn't need to treat her like that!"

"I changed my mind," He went calmly round the corner and stopped in a large room with glazed tiles on the wall, large pipes and a skylight with opaque glass. Yet it was a light source, and Ilsa hurried to place her bag on a nearby bench and claim that locker room as her headquarters:

"Karl Ruprecht Kroenen changing his mind about something? That's new!" she teased with a smile:

"Don't worry, I didn't change my mind about you," he replied, crossing his arms. The blonde-haired woman rolled her blue eyes:

"Typical," Her smile died and she approached Kroenen, and reduced her voice to a whisper. "Grishka showed me that book you're reading... he said Alma really is the descendant of the Morrígan. She will be very powerful, once she manages to control her powers."

"True," Kroenen tilted his head; was Ilsa insecure? He had seen her once like that, and it hadn't been pretty. He just hoped she wouldn't burst into tears like the last time, it was extremely annoying to hear people crying. Ilsa bit her lower lip, careful not to mark her red lipstick:

"They called the Morrígan the «Phantom Queen». So is Alma going to be a queen of spirits?"

"You will always be Master's queen, stop whining..." Kroenen rolled his eyes under the mask. Ilsa frowned, a little taken aback, but she regained her composure in the blink of an eye. Kroenen couldn't blink, so he watched the whole process. "Or are you telling me you are afraid of a teenage girl?"

"I'm not afraid of her. She's too silly to be a threat," Ilsa puffed her chest. "Besides... I actually like her. She's better company than you."

"Alma is not silly," Kroenen hissed. He knew there was something in there. He turned his back at Ilsa and decided to explore the other rooms, alone, and hope that the woman wouldn't follow him and ask him «Why do you think she isn't silly?»

Ilsa would never understand. She didn't understand him, so she would never understand Alma. All Ilsa cared about was to be pretty for Rasputin and be sure she knew more spells and enchantments and creatures than Kroenen. Alma cared about being pretty because that was her mask, and Kroenen wanted to know more about what was hidden under the makeup and the alluring clothes.

He found a metal staircase and went downstairs, and the first room he got in had a big and empty furnace and lots of machinery. The masked man liked that place and he left his and Alma's backpack there. After exploring the rest of the rooms and concluding the one with the furnace was the most interesting one, he made his way back and made himself comfortable; there was a desk and a few chairs, so he placed his gramophone and records and his tools on the desk. He left only one chair and shoved the others into the furnace, together with some broken boards that were piled near one of the machines.

Now he just needed that Alma managed to get him a lighter, and he would have light to work... While waiting for her return, he would listen to music. Händel seemed perfect for the occasion, and as the music filled the silent room Kroenen lost his notion of time.

He only came back to reality when Rasputin stopped the music. Ilsa was standing next to him, dressed in a long fur coat, and there were hellish flames dancing inside the furnace:

"Alma will be here any time soon. Take care of her, will you?" the Russian man asked. Kroenen nodded. Rasputin smiled. "Good. She did very well, I'm pleased. With you too, keep up the good work. Now, Ilsa and I are going for a little walk, just like I promised her once, years ago."

"Jawohl, mein Meister," Kroenen replied. We watched them leave, then he sighed and stood up. He thought about trying to enter Alma's mind, but he needed to touch her to do that, so he would have to look for her the traditional way. So Kroenen made his way through the dark maze, expecting to hear the sound of wings or maybe to bump on her exhausted body. But there was only silence.

Then Kroenen heard steps, slow steps, and the sound of a body dragging along the wall.

He winded-up his clockwork heart and unsheathed a tonfa blade, listening carefully to the steps. Whoever that intruder was, would have a quick end:

"CAC CAPAILL!"* And the sound of a body falling flat on the floor. Kroenen sheathed his tonfa blade again, frowning, and followed the sound of very colourful curses. And he found Alma lying on the floor. With a chuckle, he crouched in front of her:

"I could have killed right now. What are you doing here?"

"I'm lost, and exhausted, and hungry and a bit cold!" Alma replied and stretched her hands to Kroenen. "Help me, Specky Four-Eyes..." Kroenen stood up and held her hands to help her back to her feet. "Where's Master?"

"He left with Ilsa, and said you did well. He's pleased," The masked man let her go and she leaned against the wall. Alma smiled, her ghostly pale skin glowing weakly in the dark, or maybe it was just Kroenen's eyes tricking him.

Kroenen guided her to the machinery room and helped her to sit on the chair; she could stay there for a while and then move on and find her own room. Alma looked around:

"Deadly!" she exclaimed:

"Yes, whatever that means in that horrible English of yours. Now eat and go to sleep," the German man commanded and handed the girl her backpack. Alma sighed tiredly and opened her backpack, rummaging its contents:

"It means «fantastic»," she said, and started to empty the backpack, placing the items over Kroenen's desk. The masked man shook his head as he watched the things she had brought; makeup products, a comb, a small mirror, moisturizing cream and a blanket. She finally found a bottle of water and a sandwich. "You know lad, I have to thank you for nagging me about the backbag; I would starve if I hadn't brought this food."

"You're welcome," Kroenen replied, and he puffed his chest with pride; it was not everyday someone listened to him and followed his advice. Not that he was always giving advice... but it was a small and warm feeling inside, and it made him feel good, and he liked it. And, just like he had been thinking about lately, Alma wasn't that bad; she was proud, but she wasn't arrogant, like Ilsa. Ilsa had never thanked him.

He felt a little at ease and sat over the desk, watching as Alma shoved everything but the food and the blanket into the backpack again:

"Why did you bring your makeup products?" he asked. Alma almost emptied the bottle of water before starting to eat the sandwich:

"Why did you bring your gramophone?" she replied with her mouth full. Kroenen shook his head:

"Don't talk like that!" he scolded and Alma rolled her eyes. "I like music. I need music."

"There, I like my makeup," the girl replied with her mouth full again. Kroenen let out a suffering sigh:

"But why do you worry so much, if you practically spent your whole life locked in your room?"

This time Alma took a while to answer, and she chose to finish her sandwich first. When she finished, she wrapped the blanket around her body, like a cloak:

"To start with, lad, I like to look myself in the mirror and find myself beautiful. But I also thought that, if I ever met someone, they would like to meet a pretty, stylish and friendly me," Alma said and looked down. No smile on her lips. "I never thought I'd be judged as shallow and stupid."

Kroenen just tilted his head, frowning under his mask. Alma looked at him again, half of her face in the shadows and the other half illuminated by the flames in the furnace at the other side of the room. The half of her face in the dark seemed to glow, and both of her eyes had the same intense emerald colour. And he couldn't help but feel a sudden and unexpected wave of sympathy towards that girl. He knew it was sympathy because he had read what was sympathy in Psychology books, since Kroenen wasn't particularly skilled at feeling. He allowed himself to imagine how perfect that girl could be if he only taught her to act correctly. And he would do it, he would make her a queen. A queen for the new world that would be. A perfect queen, with his touch, for a perfect world. Rasputin hadn't given Kroenen the very incarnation of a mighty headache, but the biggest honour of all.

He sighed, imagining one day she would understand him completely:

"It's a cruel world, outside. But tell me Pooka... what is beauty for you?" he asked, and leaned a little towards her. Alma gave him a little smile:

"Beauty... is being perfect, both in the outside and in the inside."

"And what is perfection?"

"Being flawless," Alma's face became very serious. "Having a good appearance and a good soul, with morality and honour," Kroenen raised a hairless eyebrow under his mask, but grinned sadly; so close, yet so far!:

"What is good appearance for you?"

"Well..." Alma paused, frowning. "It's... something... like me, I guess...?"

"So, you are perfect."

"No lad, no one can be perfect," Then she widened her eyes, remembering his passionate speech from days before. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to offend you or-"

But Kroenen just chuckled; maybe it was closer than what he thought! Alma frowned, without understanding what had been so funny:

"Do you have any idea of how to become perfect?" he asked, supporting his elbows on his thighs and resting his chin on the palms of his hands. The Irish girl arched a black eyebrow:

"Uh, by dressing well, by hiding stuff like pimples and ugly scars with foundation-" She widened her eyes again. "Not that your scars are ugly! I just... wouldn't like to see scars on me!" The masked man just nodded, even though he felt like he had been punched in the stomach and that someone had emptied a bucket of icy water on him immediately after. Alma bit her lower lip, carefully. "Are you upset?"

"Where you saying...?" Kroenen politely ignored the question, and Alma shrugged:

"Hm... so yeah, physically... Now, to be perfect in the inside, I think one has to be honourable, and honest, and friendly, and helpful... you know, good stuff."

Kroenen tilted his head again, looking at the girl curiously:

"Do you know _we_ are considered the evil forces, or didn't the raven tell you that?"

"The raven just told me something big would happen, something that would change the world..." Alma shrugged. "Good and bad are difficult to tell apart; what is good for me might be bad for you, and what is good for you could be bad for me. It all depends on what you stand for, and I stand for a world where people who are different, like us, don't need to hide behind a mask or a bedroom door, and where magic isn't looked aside, and where Gods and people can live in harmony and share knowledge!" She was smiling by this point, wide shiny eyes looking directly at Kroenen's lenses, and the man had the feeling she could see his eyes and his soul. For a while he was speechless, overwhelmed by her words, and by the feelings each word carried.

Alma, the talkative girl with ridiculously high heels and perfect makeup, the girl he thought shallow, the girl Ilsa thought silly... had practically resumed his beliefs. His Master had been right, like always. She just needed the right education.

And, with luck... maybe she would be perfect. Kroenen shook his head, trying to contain himself. Those feelings weren't new, he had felt them before, many times... but as the years gone by and he noticed everything was still the same, his hope had died. And many times he thought himself like a fallen angel walking in the dark. But now he could see he was not alone. He and Alma would walk together. He could let her in his little world, and he knew she would let him in her even smaller world, a world of fairytales and knights in shiny armour and dreams.

Because that was his little world too, even though there were witches instead of fairies, and knights in black whose armour had been tested several times through their lives, and nightmares:

"And lad," Alma said, calling him back to reality. "...what is beauty to you?"

He grinned under his mask and jumped to the floor, and started to pace back and forth:

"For me, beauty is perfection. And being perfect is being flawless. And one can only be flawless by being pure and unfailing," he explained, making the biggest effort of all to sound calm and cool. His teenage years were long gone, excitement would look ridiculous on him:

"And how can you be unfailing?"

Kroenen stopped in front of her, delighted; he knew she was going to ask that! No one ever had, no one had ever given him the pleasure of having such philosophical conversations, no one had ever wanted to understand what was under the mask. They all had just wanted to see it. He removed the glove from his mechanical hand and held one of Alma's small and delicate hands, and took a moment to study the contrast of her pale skin and her claw-like nails painted in black. Then he crouched and pressed her hand over his wind-up key:

"By making myself as precise as a clockwork," he answered. "Joining machinery and humanity."

Alma tilted her head, like a raven, and traced the wind-up key with a finger:

"You... modify yourself? Like... you rebuild yourself?" she asked. Kroenen felt like jumping and jigging and even telling Ilsa it was a beautiful night; Alma was curious, surprised! She wasn't horrified, or disgusted, or hadn't walked away calling him madman. He squeezed her hand on his:

"It's a slow process. All I did until the moment was my heart, my hand and part of my spine," the masked man watched as Alma only blinked her eyes, not even flinching. He sighed, feeling good, light... happy. He let her hand go and stood up. "You should sleep now, Pooka."

"That's not a bad idea..." Alma covered her head with the hood of her hoodie and stood up, still wrapped in the blanket. "Ilsa got me wrong about you, Specky Four-Eyes!"

"Ilsa doesn't know me... at all," Kroenen sat on the chair and watched as Alma lied on the floor, in front of the furnace. He frowned, but seemed she wanted to sleep there. And the German man didn't mind. " Are you comfortable?"

"Yes, I always wanted to go camping!"

"Camping is outside, and with a tent..."

"Close enough," the girl looked at him, smiling, before pulling the hoodie over the upper part of her face. "Good night, Specky Four-Eyes."

"Good night, Pooka."

He stared at her for a while and swore his clockwork heart was working faster than the usual, and he hadn't even winded-up. He thought he would never feel like that again. With a content smile, he crossed his arms over the desk and rested his masked head over them. Little later he was fast asleep, his eyes permanently open but his consciousness miles away.

* * *

*It translates from Irish Gaelic as 'horse shit', but also as 'holy shit'.

**Weeeeeee, review?**


	6. Dark Song

**Author's note: **thanks so much for the follow, really. :D

* * *

_Dark Song (Primordial)_

_[Written originally by ancient Irish pagan poet Amergin Glangel]_

_I am the wind that breathes on the sea_

_I am the wave, wave on the ocean_

_I am the ray, the eye of the sun_

_I am a tomb, cold in darkness_

_I am star, the tear of the sun_

_I am a wonder, a wonder in flower_

_I am the spear as it cries out for blood_

_The word of great power_

_I am the depts of a great pool_

_I am the song of the blackbird_

_Who but I can cast light upon the meeting of the mountains?_

_Who but I will cry aloud the changes in the moon?_

_Who but I can find the place where hides away the sun?_

_AiliIath Nerenn_

_From the breeze on the mountain to the lake of deep blue_

_From the waterfall down to the sea_

_Never changing or ending on the voice of the wind_

_Sing the dark song of Erenn to me..._

* * *

_New York, abandoned subway area, furnace room_

Kroenen woke up, suddenly aware of his surroundings. He raised his head to look around, and concluded that Alma was still sleeping and the hellish flames in the furnace looked bigger than the previous night. He suppressed a yawn and straightened his back, stood up and carried out a long session of stretching exercises, while keeping his eyes on the restful form of Alma's body, wrapped in the blanket.

Then he heard the sound of boots walking on the metal staircase, and he made his way to where the door should have been and looked at the staircase at the end of the dark corridor. Ilsa showed up little later, with the brightest of smiles and holding a cigarette between her teeth. Kroenen shook his head; the woman only smoked when she was truly happy. The masked man crossed his arms and leaned against the wall:

"You are not smoking here," he said. Ilsa ignored him completely:

"Grishka and I brought some food, to spare Alma. Breakfast is ready, where is she?"

"Still sleeping."

"So, wake her up! We're waiting for the two of you!" Ilsa turned her back and left, leaving a smoky trail behind and a feeling of good vibes that was somewhat sickening for the masked man. Kroenen just shook his head again and went back to the furnace room. He walked slowly towards Alma and crouched in front of her. She was still sleeping, undisturbed. The masked man tilted his head:

"Pooka, breakfast!" he called. Nothing. Kroenen sighed and nudged what he presumed to be her waist with a metal finger. The body wrapped in the blanket wriggled and the girl curled in a ball, hiding her head under the blanket:

"Fuck off..." she grumbled. Kroenen dug his finger deeper on her muscle, and she rolled away and changed to a sitting position, looking at him with wide and angry green eyes, glowing menacingly from under the hoodie on her head and the blanket wrapped poorly around it. "Fuck you! What is it, gowl?"

"Good morning for you, too," the masked man replied annoyedly; where was the calm girl he had talked to last night? He stood up. "Ilsa said she had breakfast for you."

"Food!" Alma exclaimed happily and jumped to her feet, the blanket hanging on her shoulders like a cloak. She stretched her back and arms, then removed the blanket from her shoulders and folded it clumsily. Kroenen was waiting for her at the doorway, with his arms crossed, and watched with growing exasperation as the girl left the blanket on the desk and rummaged through her backpack to retrieve the small mirror and a few makeup products:

"Master is waiting for us!" he complained; he really had to teach her not to be so insolent. Alma was holding the mirror with a hand and retouching the mascara on her lashes:

"If you held the mirror for me I could already be done with the lipstick!" she replied:

"You won't die if you leave your makeup aside for five minutes!"

Alma gave him a stern look and, with diabolical calm, she put the black mascara down and picked up the black eyeliner:

"You don't really understand, do you?" she asked bitterly. "I thought you did, last night," Kroenen didn't like to be scolded. But being scolded by that eighteen years-old girl was the worse experience of all. He had to admit; her swings between fun and banter and teenage girl behaviour and seriousness that a teenager shouldn't have were starting to confuse him. The masked man watched as she, deliberately slow, put the eyeliner down and went to retouch the black painting on her lips. "We've known each other for what... five or six days, and I've never complained about your mask."

"I don't retouch my mask and leave Master waiting!" Kroenen accused, and he felt the blood on his veins heat up a little. She was right, and that annoyed him. One of the first things Rasputin and Ilsa had asked him was why he wore a mask, while Alma seemed to ignore it completely.

The girl calmly shoved the makeup products into her backpack again. Kroenen thought she was done with it, but much for his dismay she picked up the comb:

"You have no idea how hard it is to have such long hair and keep it decent..." she commented casually.

* * *

_New York, abandoned subway area, locker room_

Rasputin and Ilsa gave up on waiting for Kroenen and Alma and started to eat. Ilsa had bought a varied quantity of pastry for breakfast and a few boxes of Italian food for their lunch and dinner, since Rasputin had told her they shouldn't outwear Alma with trifles like food, because he needed her fresh for that day's missions.

Alma and Kroenen showed up some time later, insulting each other in low and irritated hisses. They sat on a bench across Rasputin's and Ilsa's stools and the girl picked up a donut from the box:

"Good morning!" she saluted with a smile before looking at Kroenen again, frown and keep arguing with him in a low voice. Ilsa had no idea of what had happened, but she presumed it had to be something related to be waken up by Kroenen, who wasn't exactly the nicest person to deal with the delicate operation that was waking up, and her sympathy went straight to Alma:

"Why don't you eat a Berliner, Karl?" the blond-haired woman asked with a sardonic smile. The masked man went silent and crossed his arms, staring daggers at Ilsa through the lenses of his mask. Alma went silent too, chewing her donut calmly. Rasputin thought the entire situation very funny and even considered it would be a shame the moment the young girl understood she shouldn't behave like that. He finished his slice of cake with a content sigh:

"Halloween night is today," he started, and smiled to Alma. "The Samhain. The night in which spirits can more easily come into this world... The night in which we will free the Sammael, and in seven days our enemy will be at our feet, in Russia!" Rasputin paused, staring at his disciples with a confident smile. "Tonight, I will teleport with Ilsa and Kroenen to the Machen Library and release the Sammael. I know exactly where he is, thanks to our little one. And Alma, I need your eyes this morning and tonight. You have to find me the Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense. I don't know where its headquarters are."

"Can't be that difficult to find," Alma said. Rasputin nodded:

"Confidence, I like that!"

* * *

_Morning, New York city_

It was a cloudy day. A raven flew over the city of New York, its clever eyes looking for a building that seemed to have something to do with «paranormal research». Rasputin was in Alma's mind.

After flying for a while the raven stopped to rest a little on a window still. The TV in the living room of the house caught Alma's attention and she stared at it for a while, tilting her head curiously; a man was being interviewed, and in the background of the studio there was a blurred picture of something big... and was that a tail?:

"As the head of your division, you have seen dozens of pictures like this," the interviewer said. The man who was with him in the studio shrugged:

"Exactly, so why is it that they're all out of focus? Come on, people manage to get good pictures at a wedding!"

_The Anung Un Rama!_, Rasputin hissed in the raven's mind. _It's a sign of the Gods! Fly again, little one!_

The raven spread its wings and did what the Russian man said. Flying again over the city, Alma had a sudden feeling that told her she should fly lower, and she did, and felt her heart speed up for no reason. As she flew lower, having a better view of the people in the street, she noticed a young man riding a scooter; he was holding a paper in a hand, and the raven saw it was a map.

And instinctively she knew she had to follow that man. Rasputin said nothing in contrary.

The man left the city behind and Alma had a hard time to keep up with him, which leaded her to grumble in her mind all the vast and colourful swearing she knew, completely forgotten that Rasputin could hear her. Finally, the man left the main road and went to a secondary road, at the base of a wooded hill, and stopped the scooter to take another look at the map. Alma seized the opportunity to land on a tree branch, still cursing angrily and starting to feel too much weight for her wings. The man didn't take much time and the raven followed him again.

On the top of the hill there was a big and austere-looking building, surrounded by a metal fence, and the man stopped before the huge gates. Alma landed on another tree branch, watching carefully, and was most surprised when an eyepiece and a small screen popped up from the wall, under a sign. The gate opened and the man drove in. Alma took flight again. _Read the sign._, Rasputin told her and the raven flew towards one of the sides of the gate, and in the sign she read "WASTE MANAGEMENT". Then she flew over the fence and noticed the man was getting in the building. She knew she was too tired to sprint after him, so she decided to do like she had done with the library, and after a while she found a small open window in the back of the building, near a huge garage, and got in.

However, as she got in an alarm buzzed madly and Alma's tail vanished, and she hurried to fly outside again. Snaking through the air, she managed to land on a tree branch, outside the building complex. Her tail appeared again, too small for her raven body. _Come back, little one. I already know what I want!_

* * *

_New York, abandoned subway area_

As she flew through the hole on the wall, she immediately shifted into human again and would have fallen flat on the floor if Kroenen hadn't held her on time. Still her knees hit the stone floor painfully and she let out a weak curse. They stood like that for a while, Alma on her knees and the German man at her side, holding one of her arms, until she managed to stand up and leaned against the wall:

"Thanks..." she said, and cursed again as a drop of freezing water hit the top of her head. She looked at Kroenen, straight at the lenses of his mask, and he wondered if she could see in the dark, because even though a sunbeam had made its way through the hole in the wall, he was out of its reach. "Is Master pleased?"

"He is. And he said you have quite a sharp tongue... I really have to teach you some manners..." the German man replied and Alma rolled her eyes. They began to walk back to the occupied area, slowly, Alma supporting her weight against the wall and Kroenen walking with his hands behind his back. "But I'm pleased too. You lasted longer than the few trainings you had."

"I told you it's easier for me to move around. This was as tiring as flying all the way from Ireland..."

"More practice will do wonders on you," Kroenen assured. He made a small pause, slowing down a little so that the tired girl could keep up with him. "How did you know you had to follow that man?"

"Irish luck," Alma replied with a chuckle:

"Wasn't it some kind of instinct?"

"Maybe, but it was Irish luck too."

Kroenen guided her in the maze of tunnels and corridors and saved her from many embarrassing falls due to loose paving stones and puddles of water that made the stone floor slippery for any unwary visitor. Finally, they reached the furnace room. Kroenen pulled the chair for her, but Alma sat on the floor, pulled the hood over her head and then lied on her back, in front of the furnace:

"I'm sore as shit, my head aches, I'm hungry, I'm cold, I'm thirsty and this fucking humidity is ruining my hair and GOD, I'd kill for a bath!"

"You have a few hours to recover before Master needs you again," the masked man told, rolling his eyes. Her blanket was over his desk, he unfolded it and walked to Alma. "Let's hope Ilsa didn't eat all the food," he said and let the blanket fall graciously over Alma. She said nothing, just wrapped herself in the blanket and curled in a ball. With a sigh, Kroenen left the furnace room, climbed the metal staircase and made his way to the locker room.

Rasputin and Ilsa were there; she was kneeling on the floor, listening carefully to what the Russian man was saying. Kroenen didn't want to disturb, but was betrayed by the sound of his boots. The blonde-haired woman looked at him, annoyedly, but Rasputin smiled:

"Is Alma back already?" he asked. Kroenen nodded. "Good. Make sure she has everything she needs; I want her fit for tonight," And the masked man just nodded again. There were still some boxes of Italian food left, so he took one, a plastic fork and a bottle of water to the furnace room.

Alma was already sleeping and only woke up when Kroenen carefully kicked her ribcage. After a small session of insulting each other again, Alma focused in devouring the food and Kroenen sat at his desk and put a record in the gramophone. Mendelssohn's music filled the tense silence, making Kroenen sigh contently and relax completely. For a long while there was only the sound of the music, with the faint crackling of the flames in the furnace and the occasional rasping of Alma's plastic fork on the food box.

When the young girl finished eating and nearly emptied the bottle of water, she lied on her side, facing the masked man:

"What music is this?" she asked. Kroenen startled and looked at her like she had grown two heads:

"Felix Mendelssohn! Organ Sonatas, Op. 65!" he explained and stopped the music, because it was a horrible crime to speak over music. Alma offered him a smile:

"It's nice. Classical music, isn't it? I never heard it before."

"What kind of parents wouldn't make their child listen to decent music?" he asked indignantly; he had to thank his parents, if it hadn't been for their records and their habit of taking him to the opera with them, Kroenen would have never discovered his musical talent. Alma's smile died:

"The kind that hide their child from the world..." she replied. Kroenen was a little taken aback and shook his head:

"I'm sorry."

"On the other hand, I know everything about Irish music," she smiled again. "There was only Irish music playing in that house, my parents let me listen to their CDs. And grandma used to sing and play harp, but I never learned how to play. Pity..."

Kroenen considered about continuing the music session and make her sleep, but Alma seemed in the mood for a chat. Very well then, he would chat with her, and hopefully it would have the same quality as their little conversation of the previous night. She snuggled in her blanket cocoon, her face very serious again:

"What is a Berliner?" she asked. Kroenen frowned, confused, but he quickly understood what she was talking about. He shrugged:

"It's a German cake, it looks a little like the thing you had for breakfast, but without the hole, a little more puffy and with jam or marmalade inside."

"Sounds nice, you don't like it?"

"I loved it..." Kroenen grinned sadly under his mask. "I devoured tons of those when I was studying in Munich, in the 20ies."

"Why don't you eat them anymore?"

"Because I don't need to eat, or drink. And I'm not fond of useless things and activities," he grumbled and crossed his arms. Alma frowned a little, but shrugged:

"I suppose Ilsa knows that. So, why did she tell you to eat one?"

"Because she can be way more annoying than you," Not to say something unpleasant... Alma chuckled a little. Kroenen just looked at her, studying her; strange creature, first she insulted him and now was all friendly. He shook his head. "How come that such an interesting character shares a body with such a goof?"

"You little gobshite come around acting the maggot! You nag me since day one!" Alma excused testily. Kroenen straightened his back and shoulders the maximum he could and puffed his chest, looking bigger and hopefully more threatening:

"Excuse me, you are the one who pecked at my hand, has zero manners, speaks a horrible excuse of English and can't shut up for only five minutes!" he replied. Alma changed to a sitting position, still wrapped in the blanket:

"Said the thick boyo whose hobby consists on picking on me!"

Kroenen opened his mouth to accuse her of something else... but he was out of accusations. And by the way the young girl arched a perfect black eyebrow, she knew he couldn't say anything because she was right. Kroenen let out a suffering hiss and pinched the mask, over his nose bridge. Alma rocked herself back and forth:

"We actually understand each other perfectly!" she said. Kroenen rested one elbow on his thigh and supported his chin on the palm of his hand:

"Is there a way to talk to you without being insulted?" he asked in a tired voice. Alma nodded. "Care to explain?"

"Just don't be rude!"

"You are the rude one!"

"Because you're rude too! Like this morning, what the fuck was that, were you trying to open a hole in my waist? Or a few moments ago, why the fuck did you kick me?"

"You left Master _waiting_, you _dared_ to _swear_ while he could hear you!"

"Aye, but I've never hurt you, right?" And before this, the German man would have narrowed his eyes if he still had eyelids:

"Fine, you win again!" Kroenen exclaimed tiredly and leaned back on the chair, raising his masked head to look at the dark ceiling. He really wasn't used to these situations. Alma smiled victoriously:

"See, we're going somewhere! You just have to be a little bit delicate."

Kroenen just rolled his eyes, because obviously he was delicacy incarnate... They stayed in silence for a while and Alma lied on her side again, still facing the masked man. She could feel he was tired and that his intentions were far from harmful, and she also knew he had something else to say. The young girl hoped he would hurry up, so that she could sleep a little. Finally, Kroenen looked back at her:

"Very well, let's try again..." he sighed and leaned forwards, resting his arms on his thighs. "Grigory Rasputin, our Master, is a very, very powerful man. He is here to guide us in our quest for the perfect world," he paused and Alma nodded, her emerald green eyes fixed on the lenses of his mask. "He is the one who can guide you and help you to fully develop your powers."

"You're the one who's been putting up with me, Specky Four-Eyes... I've been learning from you," the girl said. Kroenen didn't know if he should feel annoyed for the interruption or a little proud; in fact, she was learning from him, and apparently she didn't mind that, and she was actually making some progress. He nodded:

"For now. But once we have released the Ogdru Jahad, Master will teach you too. Now tell me, Pooka..." And the masked man smiled, finally realising how he could easily deal with the young girl and even start to shape her, so that she would fit perfectly with the Three Musketeers, as Rasputin had called them, and become the perfect queen for their new world. "...you want to be respected, don't you? And you want everyone to like you, right?" Alma nodded quickly, looking at him with wide eyes. To make himself clear, the German man knelt on the stone floor in front of her and approached his masked face to hers. He watched as, for a moment, the reflection of Alma with the hellish flames dancing behind her on the polished surface of the dark mask disturbed the girl a little. "To be respected, you have to respect. For example, you can't leave Master waiting... I know it's... boring. I have left many of my projects aside so that I wouldn't leave Master waiting for me," he placed his natural hand over her shoulder. "To live with and to serve someone else... that requires self-sacrifice. You are very lucky that Master is a good and comprehensive man; he knows you are young and still have a lot to learn."

The Irish girl looked at him, silent, thinking on what she had just been told... and had to admit that Kroenen was right. That hit her like a powerful punch and she chewed her tongue nervously, suddenly aware that probably Ilsa and Rasputin thought she was just a silly little girl. Silly, or stupid, or shallow, or all of them. She didn't want them to think that of her. Alma looked down, felling suddenly anguished; but if they thought that of her, why hadn't they told her that, why hadn't they told her she should behave in another way? She looked up again, to Kroenen's shiny, polished and stolid mask.

He had told her he could understand. He had told her he not only was tormented by an extreme mysophobia, but he also had some awkward social skills. Ilsa had told her he was weird.

Yet she hadn't found him weird. Very original, yes, intriguing too... but not weird. She hadn't judged, and all she wanted was not to be judged.

In that very moment, Alma was sure they could actually understand each other perfectly; he was offering her something she really wanted: perfection and respect. In return, she just had to offer him something he really wanted too: something he could create and devote himself to, to make something perfect in the end.

She offered him a sad smile and snuggled in her blanket cocoon:

"I don't know what to do..." she assured. Kroenen sat on the floor in front of her, his legs crossed and his fingers interlaced on his lap. "I'm an insecure crybaby..."

"Your real self can't be worse than my real self," he assured. "And you are not a crybaby, and believe me when I tell you I know what those are..." This time he smiled, kindly, the type of smiles he would only give himself. "Your real self can be a secret between the two of us. Now you only need a new mask, one of seriousness, but I will gladly help you with that."

Alma studied him for a while. His intentions were good, and she offered him a happy, yet tired smile:

"Fine... you win this time," She suppressed a yawn. "Just stop waking me up like I'm a punching bag."

"Deal," His lipless smile grew wider, to the point of hurting. "And I'm going to wake you up earlier this time, so that you can fix your makeup properly."

Alma's smile became grateful. Kroenen sat again at the desk and decided it was the perfect moment to continue the music session. Mendelssohn's music filled the furnace room again. The masked man looked at his boots, silently drumming his fingers on the desk according to the rhythm of the music; there was that pleasant lightness, that contentment again, telling him he was doing the right thing, not only for Rasputin but especially for himself. When he looked at the girl she was already asleep.

Kroenen smiled.

* * *

Alma felt someone shake her by the shoulder. She opened one eye and saw Kroenen's shiny boots right there. She moved her head to look up; he was leaning towards her, one hand holding her shoulder and shaking her:

"Aye, we are making progress!" she exclaimed and smiled:

"I'm a reliable man," Kroenen assured and walked away, back to his desk. _To those who deserve, of course..._, he added mentally as he sat on the chair. While Alma had been asleep, he had decided to work in one of the masks he had brought. Alma joined him little later, her blanket folded in a very clumsy way, and she looked for her makeup products inside her backpack:

"You have more than one mask?" she asked curiously. Kroenen nodded, trying to finish the rebellion of a very small screw with a screwdriver of his own design. But he hurried to look away from his work and add, before she could say something silly:

"In case the mask I'm wearing is damaged. No, it's not like the tons of clothes I'm sure you have in your wardrobe."

Alma just smiled innocently, studying her makeup in the small mirror she had brought. Kroenen went back to work:

"Lad... what is a Sammael?"

* * *

**Weeeeeeee, review?**


	7. Black Crow on a Tombstone

**Author's note: **thanks so much for the reviews, and the fav, and the follow! :D

* * *

_Black Crow on a Tombstone (Satyricon)_

_Hidden under its wings_

_The darkness you wish to hide_

_Bearer of ugly truths_

_Grey..._

_Somber morning_

_Through blurry glass_

_The black crow_

_Here comes the messenger_

_Found bringer of dark days_

_Here comes the messenger_

_Black crow on a tombstone_

_Stare_

_That reeks of death_

_The posture_

_Makes you tremble_

_Here comes the messenger_

_Found bringer of dark days_

_Here comes the messenger_

_Black crow on a tombstone_

_(She'll) seek_

_And find you_

_Make you remember_

_Here comes the messenger_

_Found bringer of dark days_

_Here comes the messenger_

_Black crow on a tombstone_

_Hidden under its wings_

_The darkness you wish to hide_

_Bearer of ugly truths_

_On a grey_

_Somber morning_

_Through blurry glass_

_The black crow_

_Here comes the messenger_

_Found bringer of dark days_

_Here comes the messenger_

_Black crow on a tombstone_

* * *

Kroenen and Alma were leaving the furnace room when they heard Ilsa on the metal staircase, and then saw her coming down. The blonde-haired woman had a smile, a way too friendly smile, and Kroenen frowned his hairless eyebrows:

"Ah, here you are! Dinner's ready!" she said as she stopped on the last step, the smile never leaving her face. "And Alma, I really like your ponytail!"

"Do you?" The young girl's face lit up with a smile and she shook her head, making her wavy high ponytail whip, much like a horse's tail. Ilsa nodded and Kroenen's frown grew bigger:

"Can I ask you a favour?" Ilsa asked, still smiling. "It's a little surprise for Master," Alma nodded and Kroenen crossed his arms. "Could you please find in your pockets a pair of blue glass eyes and an electric head shaver?"

"Master wouldn't be happy to know you're tiring Alma. She needs all her strength to shift into a raven and remain as one," Kroenen snarled before the young girl could do anything else. Ilsa, the little false bastard! Saying the girl was silly and now asking for things! He had wanted to ask Alma for a lighter, yes... but he could! He was in charge of her and in the beginning of the process of being friends with her! Besides, Rasputin had made it clear he wanted Alma fit for that night, and she wouldn't be fit if she wasted energy looking for things in her pockets!

Ilsa fusilladed him with her blue eyes. Sadly for her, Kroenen was bullet-proof... Alma looked at them both, confused; she didn't want to displease Kroenen... but she didn't want to displease Ilsa too! And she wanted to prove Ilsa and Rasputin she wasn't just a silly girl:

"If it's for our Master... I think I should do it," Alma concluded, excusing to Kroenen. The masked man just grumbled something under his breath while Ilsa smiled again:

"See Kroenen, she already got it!"

"'kay, a pair of blue glass eyes..." Alma muttered and slipped a hand into one of the pockets of her cargos. She felt her fingers touch something cold and with the shape of a convex shell. She curled her fingers around it and removed her hand for the pocket, and when she opened it she showed Ilsa a pair of blue glass eyes. The blond-haired woman clapped her hands excitedly and Alma handed her the ocular prosthesis. Then she slipped her hand into another pocket. "And an electric head shaver," but all she got was a straight razor.

Ilsa was pleased, nonetheless, and happily trotted upstairs again. Kroenen and Alma stood behind, and the young girl didn't need her instinct to know he was boiling with anger. She bit her lower lip, careful not to mark the black lipstick:

"Are you bullin?" she asked. The masked man let out a long, hissing sigh. "Are you angry?"

"Not with you..." Kroenen grumbled and rolled his eyes under his mask. "Come on, you need to eat," And he made his way upstairs:

"Do you think I shouldn't have done it?" Alma followed him:

"I already said it has nothing to do with you," the German man replied angrily. Alma frowned:

"Oi, stall the ball before you start acting the maggot!"

Kroenen didn't say anything else; even though he had no idea of what exactly that meant, he knew she had just told him to stop right there. And he would, he was not in the mood for arguing with her again and having Ilsa making stupid comments and Rasputin looking at them with an amused smirk.

* * *

_New York, Machen Library, evening_

A raven landed on the top of the stone balcony guard rails of the second floor, in the shadows between a pillar and a long banner, and hid a little behind it. That was the room were the Sammael was, and now that she had some time, Alma took the chance to look around, her clever dark raven eyes studying everything; the various glass cases with pottery and other artifacts, a glass case with a skeleton of an animal, beautiful statues of saints and a few Mesopotamic deities. The raven tilted its head, looking at the black and white patterns of the marble floor.

Suddenly Alma felt dizzy and she shook her head a little, trying to dismiss the confusing feeling that was Rasputin entering her mind. Almost at the same time, a faint purple flame flickered next to her, and Kroenen's head peeked from it. The raven tilted its head; why was he being teleported to the pillar? He was going to give a mighty fall! She wanted to warm him, but with Rasputin in her mind she hadn't enough strength to keep conscious, as a raven, and speak.

However, much for her surprise, Kroenen came out of the purple flame, holding upside down onto the pillar... and just stood there, like he was simply crouching on the floor. The raven blinked its eyes, curiously; _He's a man of many talents._, Rasputin said in her mind with a hint of amusement.

Kroenen's masked face face turned to his side, to look at the raven hidden in the shadows. He couldn't help but grin widely, already picturing the scene; after they were done with the Sammael, Alma would bombard him with questions and probably demand him to teach her how to do that. And he had to admit, he was going to like that little bit of attention and admiration.

They heard steps behind them. The raven stood very quiet, and by the corner of its eye saw a man in a blue uniform heading to the stairs at the end of the corridor. Alma presumed he was a guard and watched him walking on the first floor with a small flashlight in hand, checking the empty and dark spaces between the glass cases. The guard stopped right under Kroenen's and Alma's hiding place and pressed a button on a control panel, surely switching on an alarm. Then he proceeded his way.

And much for Alma's astonishment, Kroenen walked down the pillar like a lame spider. The raven moved away from the banner a little, completely forgotten that Rasputin was seeing through her eyes; she wanted to have a better look on the German man who had just placed his hands on the marble floor and, with an elegant movement that resembled the final moments of a flic-flac, his feet touched the floor, and he used his hands to push his torso to the upright position. The raven blinked its little dark eyes several times; he had a metallic breastplate, how on Earth had he done that?

Kroenen walked towards a glass case with an Orthodox wooden statue inside. He looked at it, interested, studying the red rays of the alarm inside the case. He placed a gloved hand over the glass surface and wiped it slowly, following the horizontal ray and thinking on a way to break the glass without causing a big and fussy mess.

A purple flame flickered behind him, across the room, and Ilsa came out of it, holding a sledgehammer. And Kroenen knew there would be a big and gloriously fussy mess...:

"Kroenen!" she called imperiously and he turned around to face her. With equally imperious strides, Ilsa made her way towards the glass case. "Move," which Kroenen did, because he wasn't stupid and didn't want to get shattered glass all over him.

Ilsa struck a blow with the sledgehammer on the glass. The wood supports collapsed and the glass shattered in millions of little sharp bits, and it all rained down on Ilsa. The blonde-haired woman let out a yelp and hurried to step back, but that didn't stop some pieces of glass to land on her long fur coat. Kroenen laughed mentally and stepped forwards, before she decided to break the statue with that oversized hammer. It had to be open, but it was such a beautiful piece of art that it deserved an operation that didn't damage it much.

And when it came to operations, Kroenen was the man for it. With the alarm ringing in a monotonous tone and running steps sounding all around them, Kroenen winded himself up.

Hearing the steps, the raven hurried to hide behind the banner again, without taking its eyes off Kroenen. The guards appeared, shouting and running, and Alma watched quietly as Kroenen simply ignored them and started to spin his blade, until he had enough power to make a clean diagonal cut on the statue. The raven titled its head as the upper part of the statue slid to the floor.

Some of the guards went downstairs, aiming their guns and flashlights at Kroenen and Ilsa. The blonde-haired woman walked to the statue and looked for something inside it, and seized a large jar with something Alma presumed was salt. The raven shook its head and, much for Rasputin's dismay, she thought Kroenen way more interesting that the jar and focused her attention on him again. He was clearly playing with the guards, provokingly spinning his blades:

"Last warning!" a guard shouted not far from Alma's hiding place. The raven startled and its tail disappeared, and Alma mentally let out a barrage of profanity, completely forgotten about Rasputin. The guards shot at Kroenen, and the sound of their guns made the raven's feathers fluff up. Alma couldn't care less about looking like an oversized black ponpon, too fascinated at how the masked man spun his blades and the bullets ricocheted back to the guards.

The guards fell dead and the raven dared to peek a little from the shadows of its hiding place, not wanting to lose a bit of that fight. She flinched everytime a bullet from the other guards hit Kroenen, making him quiver, and her beak dropped when Kroenen, apparently only annoyed by those bullets, finished the remaining guards with a few strokes of his sharp blades.

_I know he's impressive, little one._, Rasputin said with a chuckle. _Now, you already know what to do._

And he left her mind. Alma shook her head, feeling dizzy again, and noticed the faint glow of a purple flame in the first floor. Rasputin then made his way towards Ilsa and Kroenen, his black overcoat floating lightly as he moved.

Kroenen bowed his head and the Russian man responded with a slight bow. He then looked at Ilsa:

"Now... ready the welcome..." And Alma's heart sped up a little; when Kroenen had told her about the Sammael, he had assured her that, since she was on their side, the Sammael wouldn't attack her, so she had nothing to fear. He had also showed her a medieval engraving of the Sammael, and Alma had concluded she didn't want to be alone with that creature. But she would have to. And she would have to trust Kroenen on how she would be safe. "... my love."

That last part made the raven tilt its head several times, confused, until she finally pieced two and two together. She made a note to self to talk about that with Kroenen. Alma then watched as Ilsa emptied the jar:

"Salt," said Rasputin. "Gathered from the tears of a thousand angels," And he knelt in front of the salt piled on the floor. "Restraining the essence of Sammael, the Hell Hound, the Seed of Destruction," Alma blinked her eyes quickly when she saw Rasputin blow some sort of green mist from his mouth to his hand. "This I can promise, Sammael: from each one of you that falls, two shall arise," And the Russian mas stood up and gave a step back.

The raven hid a little behind the banner again, but still paying attention to what was happening in the first floor. Alma felt a shiver run up her small spine as the green mist made the salt rise and swirl like sand in a windstorm, and then a skeletal paw began to take form, and then a spine and the other paws and the skull, and the skeletal creature began to growl and screech lowly, until muscle, tendons and skin covered the bones and the Sammael shrieked, widening its four eyes.

Alma couldn't help but feel terrified; the ugly creature was even uglier in real life, and seemed way more dangerous! She felt disgusted as the Sammael started to eat the dead guards and wondered if ravens could puke. Rasputin, undisturbed by the hell hound, opened the book he had brought and the purple flame rose from it. Ilsa was the first to go through the flame. Kroenen followed her, but before disappearing he cast a look at Alma, and somehow the raven found the inexpressive glance of his dark mask reassuring. Rasputin was the last to go, and he took the book with him.

The flame was gone.

And Alma was alone with the Sammael. Would be until the arrival of the B.P.R.D., Rasputin had guaranteed Alma they would come. And once they were there, she would have to follow a red demon, the Anung Un Rama. What for, the Russian man hadn't told her. She knew nothing about that red demon, only that Rasputin needed him to help him creating the new Eden.

The raven hid a little again as the Sammael burped the bones of the first guard and started to devour another one. The young girl wondered if in Rasputin's new Eden creatures like the Sammael would wander free, and if they would, so Alma would make sure there was always a safe visual distance because really, no makeup could make such ugly being look a little prettier... or maybe Kroenen could make them a few masks, that would make the creatures look stylish.

Thinking on Kroenen, the raven moved away a little from its hiding place again; Alma would like to talk more with him, there were so many things she wanted to know! Maybe they could have one of those interesting chats once she was back.

All her thoughts about the masked man and Sammaels with lipstick running in a field with beautiful flowers ceased when Rasputin entered her mind again. The raven fluffed up its feathers once more as the Sammael ran to a pillar opposite to the raven's and climbed it with some dead guards in his mouth, to finish the meal hanging on the ceiling, in the peace and quiet of the dark.

Time gone by and another guard came into the room... to find the empty uniforms of his colleagues drenched in the Sammael's drool. The man was clever enough to close the huge brass doors of the room when he left, and little later Alma, vacantly aware of the sounds outside, heard sirenes. _It won't take much time, little one!_, Rasputin promised.

And indeed, some time later there were voices and steps in the other side of the doors. Finally, the doors opened and a big and bulky man came in. The raven tilted its' head; he was red... and had a tail, and one of his hands was too big to fit in the raincoat sleeve. So, that wasn't a man, but the red demon Rasputin was waiting for and that Alma had to follow. The raven shook its body and spread its wings, hidden in the shadows, and followed each step of the red creature with the attention a raven watches a dying animal.

* * *

_New York, abandoned subway area, evening_

Ilsa, Kroenen and Rasputin were in the locker room, and the Russian man had a wide smile:

"The Gods are on our side! The Sammael will be the perfect diversion for us to break in the B.P.R.D. and finish that little saboteur..." he said. Ilsa just nodded, but Kroenen frowned, and dared to speak out loud his thoughts:

"But Master..." he said, his voice a mere whisper. "... you told us there was an alarm... and it detected Alma. How will we-?"

"Karl, when I said «us» I meant «you»!" The Russian man chuckled. Ilsa's time to frown:

"Why not me, Grishka?" she asked, feeling offended. "I am the face of the three of us!"

"Because the enemy is not supposed to see a face, my dear," Rasputin replied patiently. He looked at Kroenen with his empty eye sockets, hidden behind the sun glasses. "All they will see is a wraith," Then he added with a smile. "Ask Alma about the Irish wraiths, I think she will like to tell you about those."

Kroenen just nodded, and he couldn't help but feel proud; he had been given an important task!:

"Once inside the B.P.R.D., you will leave an «instruction» for our enemy and kill the Professor. I trust your imagination to plot all of that, Karl," Rasputin said and removed the purple scarf he was wearing and the black coat. He handed them to Ilsa and sat on a stool. "Now, let me see how is everything going in the library. And you go fix yourself Karl, you're bleeding."

"Move," Ilsa commanded and exited the locker room, still holding Rasputin's scarf and coat. With a sigh, Kroenen followed Ilsa to the dark corridor outside the locker room. He intended to go to his own headquarters, stop the bleeding and think in a way to get inside the B.P.R.D., but as he bypassed the blonde-haired woman, she curled her fingers around his arm, and the masked man had to stop and glance over his shoulder. "How will you do it?"

"Do what?" Kroenen asked, trying to sound innocent. Ilsa made a face:

"The mission!"

"Well, if your Excellency allows me to go, I'm going to think about the mission."

"We could send Alma, instead," Ilsa suggested. "No one would mind if a bird got in their house!"

"Alma is not just a bird, she's a raven," Kroenen stepped back and turned around to face Ilsa. He crossed his arms. "Isn't it strange a raven, a wild animal, an animal that lives in the countryside, get in a house, or headquarters, or barracks, or wherever the enemy is hiding?"

"But it would be easier!"

"Not to mention she can't last as a raven forever; we can't take the risk of sending her and after killing the Professor find she's too exhausted to shift into a raven again and leave," He turned his back at Ilsa and started to walk away again. "Besides... she never killed before, and I don't know her thoughts on that."

"She doesn't need to think, she just has to do what Master tells her to!" Ilsa trotted after the masked man. Kroenen frowned, grimly; Alma didn't just act, she had to have reasons for it. And after what she had told him, Kroenen couldn't really picture Alma killing someone.

At least, not without some training first. How come that the daughter of the goddess of battle couldn't kill someone? He let out a sigh; just another thing to add to the «What to do with Alma» ever growing list.

Ilsa stepped on her own coat and cursed, but much for Kroenen's dismay that didn't stop her from coming after him. They reached the metal staircase and went down:

"You speak like you know her well. That's new!" Ilsa commented:

"Unlike you, I don't talk to her only to ask her to summon things," Kroenen replied, walking with large strides into the furnace room, hoping that Ilsa would stumble with the hurry or simply give up on going after him.

But she didn't and followed him into the furnace room, filled with the warm orange light of the flames:

"You are forgetting you didn't want her around and that I had to help her after you kicked her around in the yard, and that I took her with me to do some shopping after you messed up with her again!" the blonde-haired woman reminded him. "And I really liked her ponytail!" Kroenen sat at his desk and tried to look busy. Ilsa noticed Alma's backpack and blanket on his desk and smiled. The masked man couldn't identify the meaning of that smile, and that only made him hate it more. "So, she stays here with you. How cute, now you are friends!" Ilsa teased:

"Now that you nosed around, can you leave me alone?" the masked man asked, picking up a tool and the semi-built mask he had been working on earlier to reinforce the idea of how busy he was at the moment. The blonde-haired woman made a face:

"Goddamit Karl, you're so snappish! I was going to say I was glad for you, but now I'm just going to say poor Alma, how on Earth can she put up with you?" She turned her back at him and walked away, grumbling under her breath.

The masked man bit his tongue to stop himself from saying anything else. Ilsa, the hypocrite! She was unable to care for anyone else besides herself (and Rasputin), how could she say she was _glad _for _him_?! All those years she had only annoyed and humiliated him! Kroenen shook his head and placed his hands on his hips, looking at the unfinished mask before him:

"«Poor Alma, how on Earth can she put up with you?»" he repeated in a not-really-concerned-about-quality imitation of Ilsa's voice. "«You're so snappish, blablabla!»" The German man let out a long and annoyed sigh; Ilsa surely just wanted to make sure he would not interfere every time she intended to ask Alma for something, but oh, he would!

_Alma won't be a puppet._, Kroenen thought grimly and reached out for his backpack, where he had some bandages; that would have to do to stop the bleeding, he would stitch himself in another time. _She will be a queen, just like Master asked, but she's going to be my queen. _Afterall, like the young girl had brilliantly said... he was the one training her.

Now content, Kroenen unstrapped the daggers on his arms, undressed the upper part of his suit and hurried to bandage the bullet wounds before the germs and bacteria in the air attacked him. When he was finished and inside the safety of his suit again, he crossed his arms and began to think about his own mission; what could he do? Breaking into the enemy's complex wouldn't work... so he had to find a way of being taken inside. He grinned wickedly, thinking on how humiliating would be for them the moment they knew they had brought home such troublesome creature. He tilted his head and started to rock himself back and forth; he could play dead...! He had done it before and it was a highly efficient technique!

And he could also write the «instructions» and conveniently leave them sticking out of his breastplate, or hiding between his belt and suit...

Indeed, he was brilliant!

Way more brilliant than Ilsa...

An hour later, when he was almost done with his mask, he heard someone coming down the metal staircase. Ilsa, again. He hurried to put a record on the gramophone, because Mozart was the only one able to calm him down in such stressful situations. The blonde-haired woman stopped at the doorway:

"Master wants to talk to you. And you could bring your old-fashioned gramophone along, we like music too," she said and stood there, waiting for him. Little later, Kroenen found himself in the locker room, with Mozart filling the silence. Ilsa was shaving Rasputin's head, holding a cigarette between her teeth:

"I have to thank Alma for these!" the Russian man exclaimed as Ilsa handed him the glass eyes. Kroenen just sighed. "She's been doing very well. And what about you, Karl? Do you have a plan already?"

But before Kroenen could answer, the smoky green essence of Sammael floated into the locker room. Rasputin smiled widely and opened his hand to receive the essence:

"Sammael has fulfilled his destiny. Die in peace, and be reborn again, and again..." he whispered and curled his fingers around the essence:

"Only seven more days to the eclipse, Grishka," Ilsa said:

"The Child will be there. And so will we all, won't we?" Rasputin opened his hand; it was empty. Something growled behind Kroenen. He stepped aside and turned around to see two Sammaels by the doorway. The Russian man smiled. "Probably by now Alma is able to follow the Child again."

Both Ilsa and Kroenen turned around and left. The Sammaels looked at them curiously and followed them to the tunnels, and then decided it would be more interesting to explore by themselves.

Kroenen was about to go back to the furnace room when, for the second time that night, Ilsa held him by the arm:

"See how he's pleased with Alma?" she asked:

"Master was already pleased with her before..." he replied and shook his arm free. Back to the furnace room, Kroenen had time to finally finish his mask before Rasputin himself appeared at the doorway with his gramophone:

"I'm afraid Alma is too exhausted to come back, you have to bring her," the Russian man explained calmly and handed him the gramophone. Kroenen raised his hairless eyebrows and seemed that suddenly his clockwork heart sped up.

* * *

_New York, garden of Bellamie Mental Hospital, night_

Hiding in the dark space behind an arcade of the building, Alma was sitting on the cold stone floor, leaning against the pillar. She was shivering with cold, even though she had the hood pulled over her head and her hands in the pocket of her hoodie.

That had been too much for her, and the young girl hoped Rasputin wasn't angry. Or worst, that Kroenen wouldn't be angry and disappointed with her.

Her head was spinning and seemed about to explode due to a mighty headache. The wind was howling madly, even though she could only feel a soft breeze. The cars were horribly noisy and she could hear voices and steps and sirenes, even though there was no one in sight. She could hear her own heartbeat and the blood running in her veins, and her muscles moving and tensing. It was horrible. She wanted to close her eyes, just for a few seconds, but the buzzing of the loud environment around her didn't let have a little rest.

Suddenly, she heard something crackle, like coal, and a purple flame flickered in the dark wall before her. There was a loud ticking sound and Kroenen's head peeked from the flame. She heard his raspy breathing for the first time, loud and slow. The masked man couldn't help but smile, relieved:

"There you are, Pooka!" he said in a soft voice and came out of the flame. "Can you walk?"

"Shit, you don't need to yell..." Alma mumbled and pressed her palms against her ears, but like that all she did was hearing the blood in her hands. Kroenen frowned; he wasn't yelling. Anyway, it was clear that she couldn't move much, so he had to carry her. Carefully, he seized her on his arms. The masked man expected her to relax, even if just a little, but she only tensed and curled in a ball. "Holy shit, your heart is so loud tonight, what the fuck did you do to it?"

Kroenen's frown grew bigger, and he hurried to go through the purple flame again. Alma whimpered, cursing under her breath about how everything was too loud.

Ilsa and Rasputin were waiting in the locker room. The Russian man opened his mouth to say something, but Kroenen just walked past them in a hurry:

"Something is wrong with her," he explained, not glancing over his shoulder.

He made his way to the furnace room with Alma complaining angrily about the sound of his steps on the stone floor and on the metal staircase, and of the water drops falling from the ceiling to the stone floor, and of the sound of the hellish flames. When he sat her on the chair, she hid her face on her hands:

"Fuck, I can hear the mechanisms of your hand! And of your spine! Stop snapping them, that sounds horrible!" she cried. But Kroenen just shook his head, truly shocked:

"Alma... it's impossible to hear those! At least, my spine!" he said, keeping in mind to speak lowly. There had to be something wrong with her audition... Carefully, he wrapped her around the blanket and pulled the hood off her head, revealing a cascade of shiny wavy black hair. She was on the verge of tears, and the masked man knew she would have to swallow her pride sooner or later. He crouched in front of her and, the most gently he could, pressed the index finger of his natural hand on her ear.

She yelled in the language Kroenen didn't know and kicked him on his middle. She was wearing combat boots with steel toes. Kroenen fell on his back, biting his tongue so hard he felt the taste of blood. He curled his hands into fists and laid on the cold floor for a few seconds, as the young girl cursed and sobbed. With a sigh, he sat and looked at her; she was finally crying:

"Did that hurt?" he asked in a low but offended voice; he was just trying to help her! Alma's green eyes darted daggers at him:

"It was as loud as a bódhran!" she hissed. Kroenen tilted his head to one side. "It's a drum!"

"But you didn't feel pain... you... you are just hearing everything too loud, am I right?" Alma nodded, slowly. "Is your head spinning? Do you feel dizzy?"

"A little..."

"Or you are too exhausted and that messed up your hearing, or there might be something wrong with your internal ear," Kroenen stood up, slowly and carefully; being even more silent than what he already was... was practically impossible. But even for him the thought of being able to hear muscles, mechanisms and blood moving was unpleasant, so he would do his best not to disturb Alma. "Let us hope it's just exhaustion."

"Whatever it is, I want it to stop..." Alma grumbled and dried the tears to the back of her hand, wincing everytime she moved. Kroenen helped her to lay on the floor, near the desk, and he sat next to her, supposing the old wooden chair would make more noise than the stone floor. And for an awkward while they just stared at each other. The masked man couldn't help but feel a little disappointed; he wanted to talk to her. Seemed he would have to wait...

Alma frowned and hid a little in her blanket cocoon:

"Master and Ilsa are coming," she mumbled. Kroenen heard steps on the metal staircase. It wasn't exactly a loud sound, but he supposed it was bothering Alma. He decided it would be better to meet Ilsa and Rasputin outside, so he jumped to his feet and ran to the corridor, much for Alma's dismay.

Ilsa and Rasputin had reached the middle of the staircase when they saw Kroenen looking up at them:

"She is hearing everything too loud," he explained. Rasputin and Ilsa frowned and stopped:

"Why?" the Russian man asked. Kroenen shrugged:

"Maybe it's just exhaustion. Since she can shift into animals, she has a very accurate hearing, and maybe that's just messed up. She didn't say anything about pain, just that everything is too loud."

"I should take her back..." Ilsa suggested, sounding concerned. Kroenen frowned, not really liking the idea of not being able to keep an eye on his most recent «patient». Rasputin scratched his beard:

"I would like to use her eyes again..." he said:

"She is too exhausted, Master," Kroenen mumbled sheepishly. "And I don't know for how long she will be listening like that," Which meant she would have to stay there, with him.

Rasputin thought for a while. He looked at Ilsa, who nodded quickly. Then he shrugged and started to climb the stairs:

"Very well, Ilsa will take her as soon as I come back," And Kroenen let out a little, inaudible sigh.

"Poor kid," Ilsa commented and decided to go down one step. Kroenen shook his head, slowly. "What?"

"You are going upstairs again, Alma doesn't need your noisy presence," And since she would take the girl back, the masked man didn't understand that hurry in seeing Alma:

"Said the man with the clockwork mechanisms," Ilsa made a face, but went upstairs again. Kroenen rolled his eyes and went back to the furnace room, being as silent as possible, and sat on the floor next to the Irish girl. She peeked from her blanket cocoon, her eyes reddened and the black makeup a mess. Even though she was dead beat, she felt there was something wrong with him. Alma frowned, sadly:

"Are you angry? Or disappointed?" she asked. The masked man looked at her, curiously:

"Why?"

"Because I didn't stay as a raven..."

"You did well," Kroenen assured. "I'm just... concerned about you," Then he smiled. "You didn't ask if Master was pleased or not..."

"I suppose asking you is the same as asking Master, so..." She sighed and closed her eyes for brief seconds, just to open them again. The masked man looked at her, not really sure of what to do or what to say. Kroenen tilted his head to one side, and by the way she flinched, he supposed she heard his neck:

"You can't sleep," he stated. Alma let out a small sigh and hid again:

"Thank you, Captain Obvious..." she mumbled. "Specky Four-Eyes?"

"That's me," He smiled, widely:

"My makeup is totally ruined, isn't it?"

"What, you can hear your makeup falling to pieces?" Kroenen chuckled and watched as Alma peeked out again, this time with a small smile on her lips. But she still didn't look good.

The German man concluded he didn't like to see Alma like that and took a decision when the girl turned around to lay on her back. She would probably kill him for that (he chuckled at this), but it would be worth it. With a swift movement he was sitting on top of her, his legs on each side of her body, pinning her to the stone floor. Alma frowned, confused:

"What-" she started, but the rest of the phrase refused to come out when Kroenen pressed the tips of his index fingers underneath her ears:

"If you clench your jaw and don't move, it's going to be faster," he assured and increased the pressure.

But Alma just wriggled and started to curse lowly, looking at the masked man with wide teary eyes. She could hear the decreasing of the blood flow in her veins, she could hear little crackling sounds from her skin and squishy sounds from the muscles Kroenen was pressuring. Everything was so loud her head seemed about to explode and her eyes felt like popping out. She tried to shake her head, make him stop, but she didn't have strength to fight him and moving her head only made her feel sick and left her with a faint ringing sound in her ears. But, slowly, her vision became blurry, the loud noise faded away, the feelings of the stone floor, the blanket and Kroenen's body were gone.

Everything turned black, silent and peaceful.

Alma stopped wriggling and Kroenen held her chin between his thumb and index finger; there, he had solved her problem! And he actually felt glad for helping her, even though now he had really ceased all the chances for a good chat. With a sigh, he stood up and seized her limp body; he would have time to talk to her, plenty of it, and maybe there would be nice meadows and forests in the new world Rasputin wanted to build, and those seemed like good places to take a stroll and chat.

He carried Alma to the locker room and wasn't really surprised when Ilsa freaked out and accused him of being a ruthless brute with the emotional range of a teaspoon, since he had knocked unconscious a poor, defenseless girl. Kroenen didn't mind Ilsa scolding him; he was never merciful to anyone, so obviously the blonde-haired woman had misunderstood his intentions. She would never understand.

After bringing Alma's backpack to the locker room, he sat on a stool and waited; Ilsa was sitting at the other side of the room, next to the bench where he had lied Alma, her blue eyes darting daggers at him. When Rasputin came back, Ilsa hurried to complain about how barbaric was the masked man.

With a sad sigh, Kroenen listened patiently as Rasputin angrily scolded him for doing that, and wondered if any of them knew that, to knock someone unconscious... he didn't necessarily had to knock that someone... Probably not, probably they thought he had hit Alma's head really hard.

Rasputin, Ilsa and Kroenen opened the teleportation portal to Moldavia and the masked man watched as Ilsa, casting him an imperious look, went through the purple flame carrying Alma on her arms.

* * *

**Weeeeeee, review?**


	8. Prosperity and Beauty

**Author's note: **I'm so sorry for the late... ._. anyway, lessons are over, now I just have to face the finals and them I'M FREEEEEEEEEE! :D

Anyway... I'm posting this chapter in 2, because I think it looks bad to have normal chapters with 3,something words and then this fellow with 8, something words (without the song...). So yay, double update! \m/ ò3ó

On Kroenen's scars: I think that, considering his body dismorphic disorder, the film was a little careless with his scars and the subject could have been better explored. So pretentious little me obviously took the liberty to make something decent (eh, decent) out of his scars.

* * *

_(Prosperity and Beauty - Gorgoroth)_

_To much of this force!_  
_The lack of structure!_  
_My life burnt_  
_Reflecting a forest in flames!_

_Time withdraws_  
_Hard times ahead_  
_The rules are broken_  
_And secrets told out loud!_

_A portal is open_  
_A portal to __happiness_  
_Facing change and growth_  
_Through this poison way_  
_Through knowledge_  
_Through the unwise_

_The withering of life's pleasures_  
_I become the higher self_  
_Deeper and deeper_  
_Turning_  
_A human mind_  
_With the heart of a god!_

_GOD!_

_Whose arms will I fill with gold_  
_As they whisper of lies to their ears_  
_Lives ending_  
_The distant star_  
_Keeps me trilled_  
_And never fails_  
_Closing the circle to the time_  
_Reminding_  
_Of to different new beginnings_  
_Prosperity and beauty_

* * *

_Castle in Moldavia, present day_

The first thing she noticed was that she was on a soft, comfortable and warm place. There was also a distant, almost imperceptible ringing sound in her ears, or was it just an illusion? She opened one eye, lazily, and at first she didn't recognise her room. But when she opened both eyes and looked around, slowly, all the recent happenings flooded her mind. She changed to a sitting position, carefully; the ringing in her ears was still there, but that was it.

Alma still had the black hoodie, the black cargos and the combat boots on. Someone had lied her on her bed and had closed the red velvet curtains of the room, and judging by the comfortable dimness in the room it should be around mid-day.

Slowly, she stood up; her body was silent, even though her breathing still sounded too audible. But nothing compared to what she had been hearing before. Alma found herself smiling; she was going to take a bath, put on some decent clothes, fix her makeup and look for Kroenen to thank him.

* * *

Some hours later Alma left her room and made her way downstairs, wearing a black shirt with dolman sleeves, black skinny jeans and black ballet flats. Her long hair fell gracefully on a very long side braid and a pair of big silvery hoop earrings swung happily as she moved. Alma found no one downstairs. She thought about going to look for any of her companions in the library, but she remembered Ilsa telling her that Rasputin didn't want her there while she didn't have a better grasp on her powers, so the young girl put the idea aside. Looking for Kroenen in the basement seemed like a good option, but as she reached the entrance of the basement she found the heavy oak arch doors locked, and that could only mean Kroenen wasn't there.

So Alma made her way to the second floor again and knocked at Ilsa's bedroom door. The blonde-haired woman opened the door little later, dressed in a bathrobe and with her blonde hair falling loose. She had no lipstick, and that made her look a little older. She smiled:

"Do you feel better?" she asked. Alma nodded. "Does your head hurt?"

"No, there's just a ringing sound in my ears, but it's nothing," Alma smiled too, but kept in mind Kroenen's words about being a little more discreet. "Do you know where Specky Four-Eyes is? I'd like to thank him."

Ilsa frowned and leaned against the doorframe:

"Thank him?"

"Aye, he touched me here and put me to sleep!" Alma gestured as she spoke. "I want to thank him, it was really painful to be awaken."

Ilsa bit her lower lip, guilt written all over her face; so Kroenen hadn't knocked the girl out... She would have to apologise, and tell Rasputin to apologise too. Alma tilted her head to one side, curious, sensing Ilsa's uneasiness. She frowned:

"Is everything fine with him?" she asked. Ilsa nodded and smiled sadly:

"Yes, but... Master and I thought he had knocked you out... we might have been a little harsh with him," the blonde-haired woman sighed. "Anyway, Master and Kroenen are still in New York, I think they'll be back tomorrow. You slept for a few hours, maybe you should rest a little longer."

"'kay," Alma thought about asking Ilsa if she wanted to make a session of manicure or eccentric hairstyles, but Kroenen's words echoed in her mind again. So Alma decided to go back to her room and finish the dress she had been working on the morning Kroenen went to her room to talk to her.

Alma remained in her room for the rest of the day. She ate some sandwiches and croquettes she found in her pockets and went to sleep early, because she wanted the faint dark circles under her eyes to disappear, and just in case she removed two slices of cucumber from her pockets and slept the whole night with the slices over her eyes.

The ringing sound was still in her ears, though, and the sound of voices and steps outside, in the corridor, woke her up. Those were Ilsa and Rasputin, and after the girl heard a door closing, there was silence again.

So, if Rasputin was there, Kroenen had to be too.

Alma decided she had had enough sleep and went to put on her black makeup, the same clothes as the day before, the same ballerina flats, the same earrings and made the same hairstyle. Then she happily trotted out of her room and thought about going straight to the basement and look for Kroenen. But she had never been in the basement, and judging by the size of the castle, the basement had to be a big place. And the girl had no idea where to find the masked man. All things considered, Alma decided to eat breakfast first and go on the quest for the German man after that.

* * *

This time the arched doors were open and the Irish girl peeped into the long and dark corridor, and the first thing she noticed was the faint sound of music. In the distance and nearly imperceptible, there was a light. Maybe Kroenen was there. Carefully, Alma crossed the doorway and realised she could see a staircase going down, and that one of the stone steps was missing. There was nothing she could use for support on the sides of the staircase, so, with a sigh, Alma went down, step by step, but she soon realised the basement was a very dry and fresh environment, and the stone steps weren't slippery.

Throwing caution to the wind, the Irish girl trotted towards the light. She walked along a corridor with several doors, some of wood, rotten, others made of rusty iron bars. The music was becoming louder and Alma presumed it was an opera. Aside from the weak light at the end of the corridor, the basement was completely dark. And empty, and Alma felt sorry for Kroenen and wondered why was he installed in such a place.

The weak light and the music were crawling from under a door at her right. The only wooden door that wasn't rotten. Alma stopped before the door and looked at it; there was a heavy-looking iron ring door handle. Apparently, all she had to do was to pull it to open the door. With a shrug, she held it with both hands and pulled the door open. It creaked monotonously and opened slowly. The room behind the door was nearly as dark as the corridor, illuminated only by four torches. The music was definitely an opera.

Alma stepped in and looked around, curiously, but then she froze and gaped, her green eyes so wide they seemed about to pop out, and her hands slipped slowly off the door handle.

Kroenen stared back at her, his face and upper half bare, holding a scalpel with his natural hand and a loose strip of skin hanging from his arm, starting on his handless wrist and ending near his elbow, waiting to be cut off. Blood dripped slowly to the floor. His mechanical hand laid on the table, together with his breastplate, gloves, wind-up key, mask and the balaclava he wore under it. His daggers and blades were scattered on the stone floor, near the table.

For a moment they just stared at each other, with Wagner's Götterdämmerung (Twilight of the Gods) filling the silence. Then, in a renewed panic, Kroenen stepped back, into the shadows, out of reach of the light coming from the torches. And when he moved, Alma hooked her fingers on the door and pulled, and when the door closed after her she walked to Kroenen, slowly.

And, much for Kroenen's despair, he realised that she could see through the shadows, she could see him. He had no place to hide. He started to chew his tongue nervously; it wasn't supposed to be like that, he wasn't ready yet to be seen like that by the Irish girl, nor to tell her about him with so much detail. Her voice echoed in his head, telling him what was beauty for her. Kroenen bit his tongue harder; she wouldn't see any beauty on him... that was just too soon.

But there was pity on her face and her eyes shone with sympathy. She stopped a few steps away from him and crossed her arms, scanning him with her green eyes:

"What are you doing, Karl?" she asked in a calm, yet shaky voice. The girl was scared, of course she was scared! Alma had already imagined there had to be something else besides what she already knew, but the Irish girl had never expected him to be like that. She couldn't help but feel repulsed before his sight, but since she already knew a little from him, Alma also wanted to understand why had he done that, or why had he let someone do that to him, and why had he submitted himself to such pain and agreed to become... _that_.

Kronen tilted his head to one side, studying her; that had to be the best reaction from someone who had seen his face! He knew she was scared, had to be scared, but wasn't screaming or running away and hadn't fainted. Yet. And she had addressed to him by his first name. So, there was hope. Still, he crossed his arms in front of his torso, trying to hide a little from those watchful green eyes:

"The germs, they are all over me!" he explained in a worried hiss. Alma nodded, slowly, and felt a shiver as she saw his lipless mouth move, form words. "I have to take them off!"

"And... why don't you... you know... take a bath?" the girl asked and looked at the strip of skin hanging from his arm; he wanted to peel himself alive! But she wouldn't let him do that:

"Because they have been on me for too long, water won't do anything! I have to take off my skin before the germs infect me!" He felt a new wave of panic; he couldn't simply stay there and talk, he had to keep doing his «disinfection». But as he uncrossed his arms, Alma stepped towards him, smiling nervously:

"Wait, wait! You don't have to do that!"

"I have!" And this time he smiled, and Alma flinched a little when that lipless mouth offered her the skeleton of a smile. "And then I can replace my skin with metal!"

"But you silly lad, is that ready?" Alma shook her head, her voice growing from shaky to weak. "You don't. Are you telling me you'll build your... new skin... while you're in... hm... bare flesh? That will only bring more germs! And your suit is going to be quite messy inside!" She slipped a trembling hand into her pocket. "What if we try a really, but really powerful hand antiseptic?" From her pocket she removed a bottle with a blueish liquid. The word «antiseptic» caught Kroenen's attention and he crossed his arms again. "This... this burns the germs!"

"Burns the germs?"

"Yes! It burns the germs! It's more effective than just water and faster than... peeling yourself!" And Alma opened the bottle and dropped a little of the liquid to the palm of her other hand. She then placed the bottle over his desk, next to his mask, and rubbed her hands together, like she was teaching a child to wash his hands. "See, no germs!"

"They are all over me..."

"I can give you all the bottles you need!" Alma assured with a smile. Kroenen took her sudden eagerness for will to help him disinfecting. He frowned his hairless eyebrows; no one had ever touched him since he had became what he was, and he wasn't very sure about such a precipitated turn of events. But Alma had no germs right now, she had killed them! And she wanted to help him to kill his germs. So, why not give it a try? He nodded, slowly, and stepped out of the shadows:

"I have to stitch this, first," he explained, pointing the strip of skin with the scalpel. "In the meantime, get yourself a mask. I don't want you breathing on me."

Alma just blinked her eyes, slowly, and watched as Kroenen sat at the desk to stitch himself. Alma turned her back at him, she didn't want to see that. And what did he mean by «get a mask», was she supposed to help him? That was not her plan, her plan was to give him the antiseptic product and leave him alone! She glanced over her shoulder, to see his scarred hairless head, his scarred neck, his scarred shoulders and arms, his scarred back...

And she felt so sorry for him! With a sigh, she slipped her hand into one of her pockets:

"A surgical mask," she said. Instead, she got paint respirators. With another sigh, she put them on and decided to disinfect her hands again.

Kroenen finished stitching himself, wiped the blood away and looked at her expectantly. Alma felt very disturbed with those big lidless bright blue eyes, but she ended up smiling a little under the respirators and approached him:

"Well, German with blue eyes... I bet you were blond," she said and stopped in front of him. He looked up at her, and, using all her courage, Alma dropped some of the liquid on the palm of one of her hands... and then splashed her hand on the top of his head. He flinched. "Sorry, lad! I didn't mean to try to break your skull!"

"It's fine," he assured, tensing up. There was someone touching him. There was someone else's skin on his skin. And her delicate and warm hand on his scarred scalp actually felt good. He relaxed a little. "I was."

"'kay," the young girl replied, spreading the product on the top, sides and back of his head. He was dead cold and Alma did her best not to flinch everytime she touched a scar. The scars were everywhere, deep, strange, unnatural, and his skin was rough, dead pale and yellowish sometimes, and reddened on the scars. She noticed her hand was shaking, and it started to shake even more while she was spreading the liquid on his face, being especially careful with his eyes and mouth. "So... the germs, were did they come from?"

And Kroenen told her about his fake death, about lying on an operating table that hadn't been disinfected by him, so it was automatically covered in germs and bacteria, about being touched by someone who didn't even wear gloves, about having his suit and mask contaminated by someone else's hands, about having to control his panic and perform as Rasputin wanted him to:

"But we succeeded," Kroenen concluded and stood up, so that Alma could spread better the antiseptic on his back. He liked that product, he swore he could feel the germs burning and leaving a feeling of freshness on his skin. But he liked her attention more, and hoped she would learn with him about the importance of self-sacrifice for a greater good and develop better beauty standards. The young girl had listened silently while studying his scars, with so many different shapes and sizes, all so deep, roads that had no beginning and no end. She had to admit; some of his scars looked... good, if any kind of scars could ever be classified as such, others looked like faded words in a manuscript... but the ones in the lombar area looked absolutely horrible, like he had desperately dug a hole in his flesh.

She had heard him, and seen the scars, and now, spreading the antiseptic on his chest while trying really hard not to look at the hole where his clockwork heart was hidden, she remembered what she had seen in the library and what Ilsa had told her the day before. Alma's hand stopped over a scar in the middle of his chest. Kroenen had large shoulders and a large chest, but his slim body was better fit for a dancer than for a fighter. The young girl looked up at Kroenen's skullish face:

"They shouldn't do this to you," the girl said, her face so serious Kroenen frowned. "Ilsa told me she and Master thought you had knocked me off. You did all of that in the library and no one said «Well done!», and fuck, you are impressive with those blades. Master made you go through something that could have had a sad end if I hadn't showed up."

"Don't talk like that!" the German man hissed. But Alma just shook her head:

"Just because Ilsa and Master are a pretty couple, that doesn't give them the right to be like that. They should respect you! Thank you, at least! And not shove you aside and pretend you're not a human being anymore."

Kroenen just looked at her while her words sank deep in his mind. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, that she couldn't talk about their Master like that... but he couldn't deny he wanted that, he wanted the respect and the gratefulness he had had before. He wanted to be seen as a perfect man, a perfect human being, and not only as a clockwork assassin.

He spread his arms a little, so that she could have better access to his sides:

"Since when do you know about Ilsa and Master?" he asked:

"A raven heard it and told me."

"Alma, even though your words do please me... you can't think like that. Master-"

"I'm just saying they could treat you better!" the girl replied with annoyance and came to stand in front of him again. "I always thought a team-" But she didn't finish; Kroenen rested his natural hand on her shoulder, chuckling lowly and sadly, and actually succeeding in looking at her with something that resembled affection:

"The world is a cruel place, Pooka... and most of times, to achieve what we want, we have to face things we don't like. Sometimes, facing our fears makes us stronger. The rest of times... it drives us mad..." He squeezed her delicate shoulder a little. "And you want a perfect world, don't you?" He watched as she nodded, shyly; indeed, they did understand each other perfectly... she knew how to turn his mind, but he knew how to turn her mind too. And unlike him, she had no discipline to help her to control herself. "Only Master can do that. For us. But he needs our help. Are we understood, rebellious Irish girl?"

"Fine..." the girl grumbled. This time Kroenen laughed loudly:

"I owe Master many things, I'm just doing my part of the deal. And you owe him your freedom, never forget that."

Alma bit her lower lip carefully, and nodded. Kroenen was right; she owed Rasputin her freedom...

They looked at each other, the music was still playing and made Kroenen's clockwork heart nearly inaudible; Alma wasn't feeling that disgusted anymore, it was just... weird, and scary. She still heard his «heartbeat» a little louder than the usual, but it didn't bother her. Above all, she was starting to feel really curious about all of those scars. What made her more comfortable was the fact that she could identify expressions in Kroenen's mutilated face; it was difficult, disturbing and a little confusing, but right now the girl could tell, by the muscles of his face, that he was smiling.

And he was, and he was happy, and almost forgotten about the germs. Rasputin could be their master... but seemed he had got a private disciple. And the Russian man could have his little secrets with Ilsa... Kroenen would have his little secrets with Alma, too. He tilted his head, amused with the lightly curious expression she had now, looking at him. In spite of her sharp features, Alma's face had something child-like, at his eyes. And the side braid didn't help to make her look like a woman, in spite of the makeup. The girl just needed the right education... and he would have a friend and Rasputin a very loyal follower.

But that had time, and for the first time in a long while Kroenen decided he was more important than anything else. He let go of her shoulder and bypassed her to stop the music:

"I need to go upstairs," he said. Alma arched an eyebrow:

"I thought you lived here."

"Officialy... I do. Even though I have a few things stored in a room, I prefer it down here, where I have peace and quiet. Ilsa doesn't like this kind of places," he chuckled. Then he crossed his arms and adopted an expression that Alma supposed to be thoughtful. "I should burn the contaminated things... But then I will have to build a new breastplate, a new hand and a new wind-up key..."

"Or you can please, pretty please, have a shower while I disinfect your stuff," Alma volunteered before Kroenen decided he should burn himself too, just to be sure the germs were gone. Kroenen sighed and shook his head:

"I can't just... have a shower. My eyes don't like steam, and I don't like cold water."

"So how on earth do you wash?"

"With a soaked cloth..." Kroenen mumbled and looked down, feeling uncomfortable. For a moment, he expected Alma to react exactly as Ilsa had; making fun of him, because he was always so careful about germs but couldn't find a better way to keep clean. Alma just sighed and slipped her hands into her pockets:

"A pair of goggles and a surgical mask," she said, and handed Kroenen a pair of green motocross goggles and a paint respirator like hers. "Shite, lad; I'm not letting you live like a roach!"

"What are these for?" the German man asked, casting an amused look at the goggles. Alma had taken a duffel bag out of her pocket, had picked up his breastplate, hand, gloves, mask, balaclava and his wind-up key, holding this last item with the tips of her fingers, and had shoved everything into the bag.

"To protect your eyes, because we're going to that room of yours and you're going to have a bath. In the meantime, I'm going to clean your stuff."

Kroenen nodded, surprising himself for accepting her help, her presence, so easily. He knew she hadn't simply accepted him... yet; with time, the pity that was making her act like that would become something else, he knew it. And Kroenen was a patient man. With a resigned sigh, he dressed the upper part of his suit again; the contaminated fabric sent an unpleasing shiver down his spine as his skin touched it:

"Can you wash clothes?" he asked. Alma blushed:

"Can't be that hard..." she mumbled. The German man tilted his head:

"I can wash my own clothes."

"You can get yourself in a bathtub!"

"Jawohl, Pooka," he replied, amused with her determination.

They didn't find Ilsa or Rasputin, much for Kroenen's relief, even though they heard them talking when they passed by the door of Ilsa's room. Kroenen's room was the last one in the corridor, at the right side, and he used one of his small daggers to open the door. Alma frowned, following him into the dark room:

"Don't you have a key?"

"I don't have a pocket for it," the German man excused with a shrug:

"That's deadly, you have to teach me how to work with those over-grown knives!"

"Deadly, yes..." Kroenen grinned, but the girl just rolled her eyes, not impressed with his pun.

The room was as big as Alma's and the furniture wasn't much different, but instead of a Slavic tapestry there was a huge mirror with an 'S'-like crack and instead of a dressing table there was a classic recamier with a small tea table next to it. The dark green velvet curtains were closed and, in the dimness of the room, Kroenen had the impression that Alma's pale skin had an eerie glow. He looked down at his boots, a little uneasy:

"So... how...?" he asked:

"You get in the bathroom. You undress. You put the clothes in the bag and leave it outside the bathroom. You take a bath."

"That bag must be destroyed," he grumbled, but agreed with Alma's plan. He thought about going to the wardrobe and get his spare suit or his old uniform, but that would contamine everything with germs. In fact, after he was done with the bath he would have to disinfect the whole room again. The German sighed and felt suddenly exhausted:

"Can you get me my other suit?" he asked Alma. "But disinfect your hands first!"


	9. Prosperity and Beauty II

Alma stood before the plastic wash basin filled with water, detergent and Kroenen's clothes. And now what? She considered trying to summon a book about washing clothes from her pocket, but she doubted such thing even existed.

Ilsa came in the kitchen, with a radiant smile and wearing an old-fashioned red dress:

"What are you doing?" the blonde-haired woman asked curiously and came to stand beside Alma. The young girl shrugged:

"Washing clothes... I suppose..."

"Your clothes?"

"No, Specky Four-Eyes'," And Ilsa's smile died and she frowned:

"Why are you washing his clothes? He can manage by himself!" He had done it before and in very critical conditions. That rogue, manipulative bastard! He was taking advantage of Alma's innocence and silliness. But Ilsa wouldn't let him do that!

Alma looked at her like she had said the barbarity of the century:

"No he can't, he has a serious problem! That lad needs help!" the Irish girl replied. Ilsa sighed patiently and reached out to pull a chair to sit on. She then crossed a leg and spoke, slowly, like Alma was a particularly dumb child:

"Kroenen's problem is that he wants everything his way. Everybody but him is wrong. He's very, very good at manipulating, he'll use psychology, mess up your head, make you believe you can trust him... and when you notice, you are in an operating table and instead of a normal arm you have some weird mechanical device replacing it," She paused. "And in case you don't remember, he could have killed you in the yard. I think it's very strange that he's all friendly with you, he never did that before."

Alma blinked her eyes, slowly, not really believing what she had just been told; instead of encourage her to help their comrade, Ilsa was doing exactly the opposite! The young girl felt lost; with Kroenen and Ilsa constantly accusing each other, what should she do? She obviously didn't want to upset the German man... but she also wanted to prove Ilsa she was not a silly girl. Besides, Kroenen was being honest with her, Alma _felt_ it, _knew_ it. However, the problem was that Ilsa was being honest, too.

But she had just seen his scars, and had seen how Ilsa (and Rasputin) treated him. The young girl shook her head and looked at the wash basin again:

"You don't understand..." she said. Ilsa raised a blonde eyebrow:

"I don't understand?"

"You don't..." The girl sighed and looked at the German woman, offering her a small smile. "I can help myself, don't worry."

Ilsa was completely taken aback. Or Alma was completely stupid, or there was something going on... Kroenen was probably planning something, that old fox. She stood up and puffed her chest a little, and cast an imperious look at the Irish girl; very well, if she wanted to join the Freak Faction of Rasputin's forces... that was her problem:

"Very well, then... but keep in mind you can't change him, Alma," she informed. "Master and I are going to the village. You should go pack your things, we leave to Moscow tomorrow."

"I don't want to change him and I have time for packing, don't worry. Have fun!" Alma looked at the clothes again, feeling like the atmosphere in the kitchen was a little heavier, but the feeling disappeared when Ilsa walked away.

Supposing the clothes were already washed, Alma concluded it was a brilliant idea to change the clothes to another wash basin with clean water, to remove the detergent, and then dry them with her hair dryer. But maybe she should burn that poor and contaminated duffel bag first.

She also concluded washing clothes wasn't compatible with her claw-like nails.

* * *

Kroenen let his shoulders slump under the weak but warm spray of water in the shower, wondering how come that he had never thought about using goggles to take a bath before. He looked at the little drops of water running down his body, tracing his scars, and shivered with delight before the familiar feeling of cleanness.

He had to admit; Alma had impressed him. Her reaction, her attitude... exactly the opposite from Ilsa, even if moved only by pity. With time, Kroenen was sure Alma would really accept him and help him to become a better man; he could already picture how nice it would be to have her help him replace bones and flesh with mechanics, and how impressed she would be, because he would be much more efficient. With luck, maybe she would want him to make her perfect too! That would be quite a challenge, with her current beauty standards...

Kroenen liked challenges.

But for now, he was happy. Happy! He thought he would never feel like that again! He turned off the water tape and reached out for the antiseptic soap Alma had given him before leaving.

When he was done with the bath he hurried to dry himself up and to get into the safety of his suit. Since his mask was still waiting to be disinfected, he would have to walk around with the paint respirators and the goggles. When he came out of the bathroom, Alma hadn't came back yet. So he sat on the recamier and crossed a leg, waiting.

The Irish girl came back little latter, carrying a messy pile of his clothes, mask and metal pieces. Kroenen supposed she had no idea of how to fold clothes, and thought it would be quite useful if he taught her that. She handed him the messy pile, smiling proudly:

"I dried the clothes with the hair dryer and disinfected your yokes!" she said:

"You tell me what are «yokes» and I teach you to fold clothes," the German man suggested and changed from his provisional protective mask to his regular and beloved dark and shiny mask. The mask and the balaclava under it had a fresh and clean smell.

So, Kroenen found out that «yoke» describes a wide variety of «things/objects», and Alma discovered the art of clothes-folding. As always, she was eager to learn. Yet, the masked man had the feeling something was wrong; she didn't seem as willing as before. Maybe she was just tired... Aware that probably she had had too much for only one day, Kroenen turned his back at her, put his mechanical hand in place and removed the metallic «lid» he had used to cover the hole in his chest, to protect his clockwork heart from the water, put on his breastplate and slipped his wind-up key back to place. Kroenen turned around to face her again while strapping the piece of armour on his sides. Alma tilted her head to one side:

"That thing goes straight to your heart, right? That's why you have a hole in your clothes?" she asked. The masked man nodded and leaned back on the recamier, trying to make himself comfortable. His other suit laid neatly folded over the tea table and Alma was sitting right next to him, straight as a queen on her throne. "Ilsa said you could manage by yourself."

"And I can, unlike her," the masked man snapped angrily; so, Ilsa had been nagging Alma. That explained why she didn't seem as willing as before. He held her hands between his bare and scarred hand and his mechanical one. "What did she tell you?"

"That you'd mess up my head with psychology and replace my arm with a mechanical device."

"Shame on her, I would never do such things!" he exclaimed and couldn't help but feel ashamed; Ilsa was right. But he pushed his shame aside, now feeling offended; he was not manipulating Alma, it happened that they actually understood each other and he was just... educating her. And added. "Unless you ask me to replace one of your arms, or both, or anything you want to replace," He squeezed her hands a little. "She is the one trying to manipulate you; she can't bear the thought that I not only succeeded in keeping myself alive without her help... but that I also succeeded in befriending someone."

Alma tilted her head to one side. Kroenen seemed honest. She offered him an Irish smile, her teeth shining like pearls, framed by her lips painted in black:

"'kay! But you two look like children, always pointing out each other."

"She started!" Kroenen snorted. "Ilsa would never manage to go to Ireland."

'Why?'

"She's a viper; Saint Patrick expelled all the snakes from Ireland," He smiled when Alma burst into laughter. "And until today Ireland has no snakes, right?"

"Right, for what I know," Alma sighed, still smiling, and looked at the sandwich of hands between them. She traced one of the scars on his hand with her thumb. "Care to tell how you got these?"

"Get yourself lunch, it's a long story," He watched as Alma slipped her hands into her pockets, asking for something to eat. "And after the story, you are going to start practicing your summoning mentally; saying things aloud makes you vulnerable."

"I want to learn that cool sword-fighting! And the spider trick to walk on walls!" Alma said, and in her pockets she found a dish of risotto. "Oh, I've never ate this chic before!"

"You flatter me, but your powers come first," the young girl grumbled something with her mouth full and Kroenen sighed. "Very well, story... as I told you before, I was an opera singer, a very busy child, I didn't even have the time to visit the capitals I toured to," he told with a hint of sadness in his voice; later, he had never had the time to visit them, not even Berlin, as he had wished. Kroenen paused, thinking if he should tell her right away his «relationship» with pain, and decided that it was better to leave the details to some other time. When she was older and the pity was gone. "One day, during a rehearsal, I cut my thumb in a music sheet. My tutor and my mother freaked out, acting like I had been pierced by a spear. I couldn't help but feel surprised with their behaviour, and I noticed that pain, physical pain, was different from everything I had ever felt," He shrugged, suddenly amused. "As a child that could never go anywhere, that new discovery was quite something... and I started to hurt myself in purpose," Alma cast him a pitiful look, but Kroenen dismissed it with a gesture of his hand. "Nothing too extreme, of course... I didn't have enough time, and it was rare not to have my tutor around. When I was fired from the opera world, my parents and I went back to Munich; I was thirteen and my parents were rich thanks to my voice. They sent me to a private college, where I learned Humanistics, Arts, Science and fencing. Modesty aside, I was an excellent student. However, there was only this thing I couldn't do; socialize. I wasn't used to have to contact with people of my age, I wasn't used to playing... it creeped me, Alma; the proximity, the easiness epidemics spread among the other boys, and not everyone washed their hands... it was simply disgusting, and I couldn't bear the thought of having to shake hands with them, sit close to them, sleep in the same room as them, breathe the same air as them. I made no friends, I always wore gloves and sometimes I would even hold my breath near them. Again, pain was my best friend, it took me away from all the sneering surrounding me; because, as you can imagine, I was the freak," Kroenen grimaced under his mask, unpleasant memories coming to the surface of his mind; memories of pranks the other boys had pulled on him, memories of jokes and lies they told.

Alma chewed her risotto expectantly, still looking at Kroenen with the most pitiful expression in the world. The masked man looked at his mechanical hand and moved his fingers:

"But deep inside, all I wanted was to be like them; funny as Albrecht, a leader as Klaus, extremely sociable as Maxim... I still remember their names, I made them pay for what they did to me," the masked man chuckled. "Would you like to have your revenge too, Alma?"

The Irish girl hesitated and placed the now empty dish on the tea table:

"I don't know... my parents... they did what they did... but... they taught me to read, they gave me books, a roof... I don't know lad, it could have been worst," she answered, cautiously; she had to admit there had been times she had been so angry she swore revenge on them... but would it worth it? Her family was past, it was over now. What was the point of going back to it? "Do I still have lipstick?" Kroenen nodded, still moving his mechanical hand just for amusement:

"They made you lose the best years of your life, they made you lose your youth. Tell me Pooka, do you think you still will be fit for one of your corsets when you are fifty?" the German man asked. Alma widened her eyes and traced her invisible nasolabial lines, worriedly, expecting to feel wrinkles. "Of course, if you please our Master, I'm sure you will."

"I will," the young girl assured, still worried:

"Anyway... around seventeen, I concluded I hated myself; I was weird, I had no friends, I was always hurting myself and by that time my parents and my teachers were starting to suspect there was something wrong with me. So, I decided that I had to change myself, I had to become something new and perfect, but it had to be _me_ creating _my perfect self_. The first thing I did was burning my hair off," Alma widened her emerald-green eyes. "I let my scalp burn as well, to prevent the hair from growing again. It wasn't pretty..." Kroenen snorted, remembering all the sleepless nights he spent «erasing» the burning scars with a knife, to draw beautiful scars on his scalp with a razor. "I succeeded in convincing my parents and teachers it had been an accident. The next thing I did was removing my toe- and finger-nails."

"Why?" Alma asked, tilting her head to one side and hiding a shiver. Kroenen held one of her hands carefully:

"Because nails are useless. At least, for me. You paint them, you give them utility; your nails are an adornment. But for me my nails were useless, and I don't like useless things. Hair follows the same logic," He let go of her hand. "I stayed in Munich, studying Medicine in the university; I wanted to become a surgeon, so that I could make myself perfect. It was during my student years that I heard about the to be Führer, Hitler. And I started to go to the Workers' Party meetings, merely for curiosity at first. But I liked Hitler's speeches and his views on purity, and I was fascinated. But I didn't dare to go closer, I was just a student, a weird young man, I was afraid of being rejected. So I kept studying and developed a dilettante liking for mechanical devices," Kroenen smiled and stood up, made his way to the wardrobe, opened it and looked for something inside. When he sat next to Alma again, he had brought a box that he placed on the table. He opened it to show Alma a nightingale with a mechanical back and breastplate; a wind-up key was sticking out of the backplate, and Kroenen cranked it. The nightingale began to sing.

Alma gaped, her eyes so wide they seemed about to jump out. Kroenen felt proud of himself:

"One of my earliest inventions... the only one that worked, too... It sings my favourite Mozart aria."

"It's beautiful! How did you...?" the Irish girl asked, fascinated. Kroenen crossed a leg:

"I replaced its heart with clockwork mechanisms, its ribcage with metal bars, its lungs with a pair of small bellows and its vocal chords with pipes, all connected with some more mechanisms. I designed and built everything myself."

"But then... the nightingale is dead," Alma sounded disappointed. Kroened nodded:

"I embalmed it before adding the mechanisms. I think you don't want to hear how I killed it."

"No..." the young girl sighed sadly, looking at the singing dead bird.

"For a long time this nightingale was the only thing that worked for me... When I finished studying I had to live off the money from my opera career, because I didn't want to perform surgery... the traditional way. I had my own projects, but I knew no one would accept them. I thought about joining the Nazi party; I believed them, I knew they could help me... but again, I still wasn't perfect, I wasn't comfortable with myself. By that time I had already removed my eyelids and lips, and still... hurt myself."

"Why did you remove them?" Alma asked, and cast him another pitiful look:

"My eyelids were useless; unlike you, I obviously didn't paint mine. And my lips were useless too because, once more, I didn't paint them. Eyelids and lips have no use."

"You never thought you could meet someone special and want to kiss her?" This time the girl smiled. "Or want her to run her fingers through your hair?"

"Love is for the weak," Kroenen grumbled bitterly. The black-haired girl arched an eyebrow:

"No lad, love is for the strong."

"No, friendship is for the strong; good, real friends are rare and almost impossible to find. Real friends stand by each other, no matter what, because they are loyal, there is comradeship between them. Love dies, Alma... love is based in lust; once the flame is gone, everything else is, and you look for someone else to revive the flame. Friendship is not based in physical attraction. Only the stronger resist to the temptations of the flesh," Kroenen replied sternly. Alma gaped:

"Have you ever fell in love to say that?"

"No, and I never had such friend, I just thought about it, based on what I observed. And you, have you ever fell in love?"

"No..."

"But you've read a lot of novels and romances, didn't you?"

"I did..."

"Life is everything but a novel or a romance," Kroenen smiled, watching as his words had impact on her. She frowned lightly, nodding slowly. "When I was 33 I was running short of money and was becoming desperate. I spent most of my time at my apartment, I didn't want to go out; at that time I already had my mask, and people in the street pointed at me too much, and the police was always after me and questioning me... they were afraid I was a communist terrorist!" Kroenen chuckled. "I starved, Alma. And I began to think on ways to stop my body to beg me for food and make me go out and face the world. One night, when I was on my way to my apartment, after having to go shopping for food, a man came to me and asked my name. That man was Master, he had arrived some time ago and had heard about me, the strange masked man. Master was curious about me, and made a lot of questions. I eventually invited him to my apartment; I don't like to be questioned, and I hate to be questioned in the middle of the street. But as we spoke, I understood Master was the one who could help me, the one who could guide me on the way to perfection," At this point, Kroenen's voice became more excited and he smiled to the point of hurting his mutilated mouth. "Master had came to help the Führer, and he said the moment he heard of me he knew I was the right man to help him!"

Alma was smiling too, due to his contagious joy:

"When the Nazis rose to power, Master was already among them. He told me to join them, and I did. And I was admired by everybody, everyone thought me a genius, and I felt that finally I would achieve perfection," He sighed. "Ilsa was there too, and she already knew Master, but she doesn't matter to my story. The important is that I was introduced in the Occult, I rose through the ranks, I became an Obersturmbannführer der SS-"

"A what?"

"A lieutenant colonel of the SS... I even became the head of the Thule Society! I conduced experiments in Auschwitz, my projects became something real, something I could achieve and not only dream about! I was awarded the Iron Cross!" He paused for a moment, then added in a hiss. "I was someone."

Alma's smile died:

"Then things began to change... all the ideals of the Führer about purity and honour, the ideals of the SS, the ideals of Master... soon they were forgotten with bribes and personal favours. And those who had praised my genius whispered in my back that I was mad! I worked not only for Master, but for the Führer too; my skills as a fencer... were useful, and they made me near invincible with my recently acquired occultist powers. I was, still am, a skilled parapsychologist... " He raised a hand, stopping her from interrupting him with another question about what was that. "...among other things. My projects came to a halt for the greater good of the Third Reich, Master and Project Ragna Rok."

"What was that project?" Alma managed to blurt out:

"I tell you in Moscow," Kroenen assured. "With the little free time I had, I decided to create my own swords and daggers and knives. That improved my skills to work metal and iron, and in the glorious year of 1942 I achieved my greatest personal victory; I replaced my heart with a clockwork one... and that made me practically invincible."

"But you still hurt yourself in purpose," Alma guessed. "Right?"

"Let's say... it became an addiction," Kroenen managed to make it sound innocent. "For good and bad, I grew up as an artist, remember? My scars... they are art, I can shape my body with scars, make it perfect little by little while I can't make something bigger... Here, some of my first ones," He felt comfortable enough to roll up the sleeve of his right arm and showed Alma the inside part of his forearm. The young girl frowned; she could see reddened words surrounded by a chaos of other scars, written on his arm with a beautiful hand-writing, like he had used a pen instead of the edge of a knife. "Prussian virtues: Austerity, Bravery, Courage, Determination, Discipline, Frankness, Godliness, Humility, Incorruptibility, Loyalty, Obedience, Punctuality, Reliability, Restraint, Self-denial, Self-effacement, Sense of Duty, Justice and Order, Sincerity, Straightness, Subordination and Toughness."

"Someone with all of that sounds perfect, for me," Alma commented, narrowing her eyes and trying to read the words. "I want to learn German."

"Is there anything you don't want to learn?" Kroenen replied with a smile. He was glad she had kept a certain distance from his arm, he didn't want her breathing on him. "I try my best to have these virtues... but there's still a lot I have to do."

Alma said nothing, just nodded, expecting him to continue his story. He rolled down his sleeve and crossed his arms:

"As I suppose you know from your books, the luck of the war changed with that disastrous offensive in Russia... That marked the end of all my projects and poor attempts of hobbies, and I had to work day and night on Project Ragna Rok. And in May, 1944, it was ready! We shipped everything to Norway, to a castle that belonged to Ilsa's family, and began to assemble a Portal piece by piece, in an island off the coast of Scotland. Everything was ready to be used in October, 1944," Kroenen sighed. "However, the Allied scum sabotaged us; my left hand was blown off by a grenade that I tried to stop from damaging the Portal, a rebar impaled me through the chest and severed my spine, my soldiers and scientists were killed, Master was sucked into the portal and vanished and I was stuck with Ilsa!"

"Shit, sounds like the worst day of your life!"

"One of them, yes..." the masked man grumbled, annoyed. "Ilsa and I managed to escape back to Norway; we couldn't go back to Germany, or we would be received as losers and traitors, and at the time I wasn't in my best conditions to defend myself. And while Ilsa cried over herself and had nothing else to do besides nagging me to the brink of insanity, I fixed myself. It took me almost one year to repair my spine, a few unfortunate organs and my hand! The rest of the time we waited, until there was an opportunity to bring Master from wherever he went to..." Kroenen laughed with no joy. "And this, Pooka, is who I am."

Kroenen felt light. And peaceful, he couldn't remember the last time he had felt like that. There was still much to tell, much to explain, but that had time. Time he would have, now that Rasputin would finally succeed in erasing their enemies from the Earth and create a new Eden.

Alma just stared at the masked man. She didn't know exactly what to feel besides pity; she had just been overloaded with too much history, too much feelings, too much things she didn't know what they were. Parapsychologist? Project Ragna Rok? «Portal», what kind of portal? Adding to these, there were the things she knew a little about, but would love to know more, like that famous Thule Society.

But there was this thing she knew for sure; Kroenen, in all his cool demeanor and animated chatting, was surely a very sad creature. Ilsa's words about the inability to change Kroenen echoed in Alma's mind again, and the girl had to admit that, even though she didn't want to change him, she had at least hoped to somehow ease that addiction of his to pain. Maybe with time.

For know, she was just glad he had let her this close. She knew it had been important for him. And even though Alma's life had been way lighter than Kroenen's, she could understand him perfectly; different happenings, but same feelings. She offered him an Irish smile:

"Can I hug you?" she asked. Kroenen tilted his head:

"Are you that sorry for me?" he asked with a smile, considering the pros and cons of a sudden display of affection. She grimaced:

"You little gobshite had to make a hames of this, isn't it?"

"Easy Pooka, I was kidding!" Kroenen laughed and spread his arms. "You can hug me."

And, for the first time in... how long had it been?, Kroenen was hugged. He rested his masked chin on her shoulder, feeling extremely comfortable with her arms around him, with her body heat surpassing the protection of his suit, with the strong scent of her perfume. And the best part was that this time there wouldn't be a dead body in the end, and he wouldn't be howling in grief and frustration.

Alma patted his shoulder amiably, a little uncomfortable with the strong scent of blood and iron coming from him. But she had to admit, the ticking sound of his heart was relaxing, and she made herself comfortable in his embrace. They stood like that for a while, until Kroenen tapped her shoulder with a finger:

"Training, shall we?"

* * *

**Weeeee, review?**


	10. No Grave Deep Enough

**Author's note: **thanks so much for the reviews, the favs and the follows. :D And I'm sorry about the late... ;-;

* * *

_No Grave Deep Enough (Primordial)_

_All of the God's children they all have to die_  
_Pauper to King sworn enemies to kin_  
_From men without sin to those with the beast within_  
_The grave is absolute, the grave is all_

_O, Death where are your teeth_  
_That gnaw on the bones of fabled men_  
_O, Death where are your claws_  
_That haul me from the grave_

_Do you have justice to trump the divine_  
_To steal the sanctity from their sermon_  
_Reduce to ash, writing of piety_  
_And conquer the lord's word_  
_I think you do_

_Do you bring fear to the hearts of heathens_  
_When your breath is upon their necks_  
_And the Gods will not answer_  
_And the sun is not in the sky_

_O, Death I am not ready for the grave_  
_So turn your steeds around and loosen your reins_  
_I am not one for the tomb_

_So rise my brothers, rise from your graves_  
_Throw your shackles off and stand by my side_  
_So rise my brothers, rise from your graves_  
_No grave is deep enough to keep us in chains_

* * *

It was late in the night when Ilsa came in the kitchen and found Kroenen looking at the cupboard, full of canned food. The blonde-haired woman frowned:

"What happened here?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. The masked man turned around to face her and he tilted his head:

"That dress is almost as old as me," he commented. "You should ask Alma some for some fashion tips," Ilsa grimaced and curled her hands into fists:

"You do are the nicest man alive... I have no idea of what you told Alma to make her think you're something good, but I'll find out, and when I do Master won't be pleased with you!"

"I wouldn't be so sure about the «alive» part, even though I do have a functional heart," Kroenen chuckled and looked again to the cupboard. "Alma had an intense summoning training this evening. I want her to be able to take things off her pockets silently. And because I'm a very cautious man, I told her to practice with food."

"We won't need that food, we will never come back to this place! We will triumph!" Ilsa widened her blue eyes so much they seemed about to jump out. "How dare you to doubt?"

"I don't doubt, Ilsa; I just don't know what will happen, how our new world will look like. Remember, novelty requires destruction of what is old," The masked man shrugged. "And since I have no idea of what will happen, and since Alma needs food... caution never killed anybody. Besides, she's getting better with controlling her powers," The dark lenses of Kroenen's mask looked at Ilsa again, and she couldn't help but feel an unpleasant shiver. "Had a good time with Master?"

"None of your business," Ilsa blushed and looked at the cupboard. "I presume there isn't a single bottle of wine...?"

"Why would I tell Alma to waste energy with useless things?"

"Master likes wine!" Ilsa let out a helpless hiss. "You're impossible!"

She turned around and left.

The next person to get in the kitchen, a few hours later, was Alma, and Kroenen stood up from the chair and left the book aside to meet her halfway from the fireplace and the other chair. The young girl was wearing socks and a t-shirt that fitted like a dress, and it wasn't black, so the masked man presumed she had just woken up and hadn't realised she was wearing such ridiculous outfit:

"You should be sleeping," Kroenen said when he stopped in front of her. She didn't have makeup, and she did look sleepy:

"I can't sleep... I feel tired, but I can't sleep. And I can't get myself a glass of milk, all I can find is the bloody glass!" Alma explained annoyedly. "Can you make that trick to make me sleep?"

"No, that's not how things work..." Kroenen chuckled, placed both hands on her shoulders and made her spin around. "But I can borrow you a boring book, they make wonders!"

"There's no such thing as a boring book..." Alma complained, but allowed Kroenen to push her gently and they both left the kitchen and climbed the dark staircase to the second floor. The masked man looked at her, and this time he was sure she actually had a weak pale glow. They crossed the long corridor and stopped in front of Alma's bedroom:

"There is," Kroenen assured and made his way to his own room. "Get yourself comfortable."

Little later Alma was lying on the bed and Kroenen was sitting next to her, reading Dostoievski's «Crime and Punishment»; it was in German, so he had to translate it. The process itself was slow, since he wanted to pick the most boring English correspondents to the German words. And when chapter one was over, Alma was fast asleep. Kroenen sighed, relieved, because he was starting to feel sleepy too. He tugged her blanket a little and left, silently.

Kroenen went back to the kitchen, but the Russian author had left him with little apetite for reading more that night. So he just stood there, sitting on the chair, lost in thoughts. Happy thoughts. Kroenen didn't really know how to behave with all that happiness in him.

As usual, Alma joined him early in the morning, and as usual she had her meticulous black makeup and was wearing black skinny jeans, a black hoodie and black jackboots. She had a radiant smile and sat on the empty chair in front of Kroenen, then slipped a hand into one of her pockets. Kroenen just watched, with his arms and a leg crossed, and she removed a bowl of cereals from her pocket:

"Success!" the Irish girl squealed happily. "Now I just need a spoon... hold this for me, Specky Four-Eyes."

"You are making progress," Kroenen complimented as she handed him the bowl and stood up to get a plastic spoon. "And seems you had a good night, thanks to the boring book."

"The book wasn't boring, I want to know what happens next. It's very interesting, I never tried Russian literature," Alma replied, retrieved her breakfast and sat on the chair. "Now you either keep reading it to me, or you'll have to teach me German."

"I've read that book once and it was enough. I will teach you German so well, Pooka, you will forget you are English-speaker," the masked man assured with a chuckle. "But you fell asleep, nonetheless."

"Your tick-tack heart is class, lad. It's so relaxing it put me to sleep," the girl informed. Kroenen tilted his head. "«Class» describes something good..."

"Indeed, it will be much more practical to communicate in German..." Kroenen concluded with a sigh. "Is your backpack ready, Pooka?"

"No..."

"Don't forget the water, and the food, and you should dress snow clothes."

"Will there be snow? I've never seen snow! Deadly!" Alma's eyes shone happily and she took a mouthful of cereals.

* * *

_Present day, Russia, cemetery not far from Moscow_

A purple flame rose between two tombstones. Ilsa stepped out of it, followed by Alma, then by Rasputin, and finally by Kroenen, who closed the book and gave it to Rasputin. The purple flame vanished. Alma was the only one who didn't have snow clothes; according to her, they were everything but elegant, and she would rather be cold for a while than commit such a fashion crime. Kroenen by no means was able to change her mind...

Before them, all they could see was the city of the dead, with its greyish and dark buildings covered in snow and wrapped in dead vines, with its paved streets frozen, with little bits of broken tombstones or statues here and there. The cemetery was delimited by a rusty, darkened fence, broken and twisted in some places, also covered in snow. It was a cloudy day and the wind was just a soft breeze, too weak to make the snow swirl around the visitors.

Rasputin smiled and leaded them to the mausoleum section. Ilsa hurried to follow him, doing her best not to look at the statues of angels and hooded figures. Alma covered her head with the hood and slipped her hands into the pockets of the leather flight jacket she had found in one of her pockets. Kroenen followed Alma, utterly annoyed with the fur trim of his snow coat, that was constantly getting stuck on the metal respirator of his mask.

Following Alma, the German man took a moment to study her and concluded she was uncomfortable, maybe cold...? Ilsa was uncomfortable too, walking with short and quick strides, but Alma's were larger and slower. She was reluctant, even though she didn't want to show it.

They left the tombstones behind and the paved streets of the cemetery widened as they reached the mausoleums. Kroenen took the chance to move beside Alma:

"Is there anything wrong?" he asked quietly, looking at her and feeling his mask pull the fur trim. "I thought you would like the snow." Alma looked at him, her big green eyes very shiny in the shadow the hood cast on her face:

"I just... I don't like graveyards..." she mumbled and looked down, to the snow:

"This is a cemetery."

"Whatever, it has fucking dead people underground!" Alma muttered grimly. Kroenen frowned under his mask:

"Show some respect for the dead and their resting place, Alma."

"Their resting place took my grandma..."

Kroenen nodded slowly, understanding immediately, and decided not to ask for details. Instead he moved a little closer to her and placed a gloved hand on her shoulder, hoping it would reassure her.

The group snaked in the mausoleum area for a little while, until finally Rasputin stopped before what looked like a miniature of a Scottish castle, made of black marble. The top of the Yefimovich mausoleum was covered with frozen undergrowth and the arch door was made of steel. It appeared to be a completely normal mausoleum; in fact, there were bigger ones in that cemetery. Rasputin grinned. Alma frowned and unconsciously moved a little closer to Kroenen. Both Alma and Ilsa startled when Rasputin opened his arms and the steel doors cracked open with a screech. The Russian man then turned around, still grinning:

"Our new headquarters!" he explained and got in. Ilsa sighed sadly and hurried to follow him, because unlike Rasputin, Kroenen and Alma she couldn't see in complete darkness and move without stumbling on something. Alma froze and her pale face grew paler, and she gave a little step back when the masked man squeezed her shoulder:

"I don't want to go in there!" the Irish girl muttered. Kroenen moved behind her and stood there, stopping her from moving away. He then placed his other hand on her other shoulder and pushed her gently:

"I assure you that as long as you stay with me, nothing bad will happen," he promised. But Alma just shook her head, even though she allowed the masked man to push her:

"They keep dead people in there!"

"No Alma, you are not going to see dead people. We are not staying with the dead people," He sighed patiently. "I go first, ja?"

The Irish girl mumbled something imperceptible as Kroenen held one of her hands and walked ahead of her. Reluctantly, Alma followed him, keeping a certain distance and looking everywhere. But as soon as they were both in the mausoleum the steel doors closed with a loud BUM!, and the girl shifted into a raven and landed on Kroenen's shoulders, digging its claws into his shoulder and puffing up its feathers. With a low chuckle, Kroenen held the bird like it was a cat and hurried to follow Rasputin and Ilsa, who stopped when they heard the door closing:

"We have to stay together, only with me you are safe from the traps," the Russian man explained and proceeded his way, down the stone staircase. Ilsa, holding the back of Rasputin's coat, frowned:

"I can't hear Alma," she said. A raven cawed:

"That's her!" Kroenen exclaimed and smiled under his mask, looking at the raven on his arms. The girl, now bird, looked like an oversized ponpon, and hid its head under one of its wings. Kroenen sighed but decided not to bother her; if she had to wander alone in those tunnels, he was sure Alma would be able to make it as raven, just like she had done in New York.

The staircase ended in a small hall with corridors branching in three different directions. Disposed in circle, into small niches in the wall, were coffins. The masked man ran a finger along the raven's back, reassuringly, but Alma just curled into a smaller ball of feathers. Rasputin stopped and turned around to face his followers, like he was a touristic guide. He raise an eyebrow when he noticed Alma, but decided not to comment:

"The danger lies behind these corridors," Rasputin began to explain. "Each trap... is better than the other," He took a moment to laugh and Ilsa laughed too. "I'm sure the Anung un Rama will bring his comrades, and once the enemy is here they will be forced to follow separate paths; Karl, you are standing on spiked metal plates that will shoot up and divide the enemy in two groups," Kroenen looked down and graciously moved aside.

Rasputin made his way to the left tunnel, and Ilsa and Kroenen followed him. The tunnel ended on a chamber with stone walls, and water ran down on the walls:

"This is the perfect environment for the Sammaels, who will be here anytime soon," the Russian man said casually while crossing a small stone bridge towards an hexagonal structure on the other side. Kroenen felt the raven on his arms shiver a little. The German man looked around, to the huge gears on the walls and below them, and felt a sudden fascination for that place; it was like being inside a gigantic clockwork mechanism. "Every step the enemy takes forwards, is a step they won't be able to take back."

They crossed the bridge and found themselves in a narrow, arched stone corridor, covered in rows of rusty, yet sharp steel blades, that ended with a small stair to a stone chamber; one of the walls was missing and there were only the metal rods, and behind them huge gears. There also gears scattered along the walls, and from the ceiling came ropes, hooks and pulleys. The floor was made of wood and there was a small, dusty table with an equally dusty chair. A few grandfather clocks were lined along one of the walls. Kroenen had to admit he did want to see those mechanisms work:

"Here is our first defense. Karl, I rely on you to finish the enemies who come through that corridor," And Rasputin suggestively tilted his head towards part of the wooden floor, and even though it was completely dark the masked man noticed there was a trapdoor.

They crossed the chamber and got in another corridor, longer and larger:

"The Sammaels are currently bellow us, I think they like their new home," Rasputin said, hearing faint growls echoing through the stone walls. Kroenen felt Alma shiver harder.

After a while walking on that corridor, they finally reached the catacombs; it looked like an amphitheater flanked by large columns, the ceiling was a glass dome, up high, and in the wall in front of them there was a model of the solar system. In front of the model was the statue of an angel, holding a key. All around there were statues of bowed men holding swords, tombs and funerary niches, and huge mechanical gears. In front of the angel there was an altar, and not far from it there was some kind of big rabbet in the stone floor.

The light coming from the glass dome was weak, but Ilsa was visibly pleased with it. They stopped exactly in the middle of the catacomb and Rasputin opened his arms:

"And here is where we will triumph! Now..." He smiled, looking at his followers and still not commenting the fact that there was a raven curled in a ball, on the crook of Kroenen's elbow, and that the masked man seemed more interested in it than in the stage for their last act. "Ilsa and I are going to retrieve what is rightfully mine... and most needed for our success. In the meantime, the two of you..." Rasputin signaled Kroenen and Alma with his head. "...stay here. Go to your post and don't leave it until I come back. And don't let Alma leave your side, Karl."

Ilsa grimaced when Kroenen bowed his head, turned around and left. She moved closer to Rasputin and placed a hand over his shoulder:

"Grishka... I think this was a bad idea! Look at Alma, she isn't ready for this!" the blonde-haired woman hissed. The Russiam man chuckled and looked at Ilsa, whose frown grew bigger. "And Kroenen is up to something, just look at them! Yesterday I found that silly girl washing-"

"Ilsa, you've had her age too, and it wasn't that long ago!" Rasputin winked and Ilsa blushed a little. "Don't you remember the first time you saw the spirits I talk to?" Ilsa's blush darkened. "About Kroenen... he's just following my orders, I told him to make something useful out of Alma."

"You know there's something going on, tell me!"

But Rasputin just laughed.

* * *

When Kroenen stepped into «his» chamber, the wall with the giant mechanisms lit up bellow the floor level and an orange light filled the room with a comfortable weak light. Kroenen knelt on the floor and managed to release the raven's claws from his arm and put it carefully on the floor. The raven tilted its head several times, looking at him with its little curious eyes and still looking like a ponpon. Kroenen chuckled and poked the top of the raven's head with a finger:

"I always thought ravens were not supposed to look fluffy," he said, amused, and laughed when the raven pecked his finger and became bigger, until the raven was replaced by a young girl. A very pale and definitely not happy young girl. Kroenen stood up, left his backpack near the table and undressed the snow jacket and pants that he was wearing over his suit. Alma didn't move, looking around suspiciously. With a sigh, Kroenen walked to her and pulled her hood down, and managed to take the backpack and her jacket away from her. "There are no dead people here, Alma..."

"They are, in the tombs," the girl muttered sadly and hurried to trot after the German man when he decided to explore a little «his» chamber. When he was done exploring, he gently guided Alma to the chair and made her sit, then crouched in front of her:

"Death is just another step, Alma. You don't have to fear it, or fear the dead. You just have to respect them. The dead are just empty shells; their soul is somewhere else," he explained, holding her hands. "Your grandmother is surely in a better place, where she can see you, and I'm sure she's happy with what she sees."

"You little flute will make me cry," Alma mumbled and smiled sadly. Kroenen put on and indignant expression, completely forgotten Alma couldn't see his face:

"A flute, me? What are you, a bagpipe?"

The Irish girl laughed, briefly, but that was enough to make Kroenen smile under his mask; he didn't like to see Alma sad, that was wrong, so if he had to use a sense of humor he wasn't really sure he had, he would. And he would see what had happened to her, to understand better the situation and know what to do. The masked man raised a hand and placed in over her head. Alma hesitated a little, but nodded.

Kroenen got in her mind.

_Seeing through Alma's eyes, he noticed he was in the same dark room, only lit by the fireplace, where her grandmother used to be sewing. Right now Alma was lying on the floor, over her stomach, drawing clothes. The drawings weren't bad at all for a ten years-old. Kroenen could only see the paper before him, but he heard someone sing, and by the voice it was an old woman. Alma's grandmother, and she was singing in the language the German man didn't know._

_Suddenly, the woman stopped singing and there was a «thud!» of something falling to the floor. Alma lifted her eyes from her drawing and saw the old woman lying on the floor, in front of the fireplace, still holding the skirt she was sewing and the needle with thread. The little girl screamed and hurried to crawl to her grandmother, calling her in the strange language. When she leaned over the body, she was met by a pair of lifeless green eyes._

_Alma screamed again and everything became too confuse for Kroenen understand; there was an uncontrollable shift between arms and wings and horse legs while the girl tried to use the phone, there were black feathers floating all around, then everything became black and there were only voices, fragments of conversations:_

_"Help!"_

_"-dead-"_

_"It's your fault!"_

_"-just a child-"_

_"-strange child-"_

_"-dead-"_

_"It wasn't me!"_

_"-menace-"_

_"-old woman was a bad influence on her, I'm glad she's dead!"_

_"-natural death-too old-heart-"_

_"-funeral-graveyard-Alma has to go, or people will wonder."_

_Slowly, the blackness gave place to a small graveyard. There were still voices hissing and Kroenen couldn't hear what was being said at the funeral; there were at least 50 people gathered around a freshly open grave, and next to it was a dark coffin. Alma was in the front row, her mother and father holding on her hands with maybe a little too much strength, maybe hoping that would prevent Alma from growing wings or horse legs or anything like that. Kroenen began to see everything foggy; Alma was crying, but the graveyard itself was almost completely hidden in fog._

_The coffin was put in the grave and buried._

_Everything went black:_

_"-gone-"_

_Kroenen found himself in Alma's room, looking at the closing door. He heard her parents lock the door and her vision blurred again because of the tears._

And he decided he didn't want to see more and pulled her to a strong and comforting embrace. She was sobbing and clung to him like her life depended on that. Kroenen stood up and she followed his movement, and for a long while they stood like that, with Alma sobbing lowly against his cold metal breastplate. Kroenen sighed; even though he had never been affected by someone's death, he knew what it was like to suddenly find himself alone, with no one to talk to, in a hostile world. And seemed Alma's grandmother had been the only one who had treated the girl like a proper human being.

The Irish girl sighed and looked up at Kroenen's dark mask:

"This place... it reminds me of her..." she mumbled sadly. "And even though I don't want to forget her, I don't like to remember through certain things."

"But you have to be strong, the eclipse is in five days... and we are staying here," Kroenen replied gently. "There are no tombs here, and Master said you are not supposed to leave my side."

"Fine... I'll get used... eventually... hopefully..." Alma sighed again. "My makeup is horrible, isn't it?"

"Nothing you can't fix," And Kroenen patted her back amiably. She offered him a smile. "That language... Irish?"

"Irish Gaelic, yes," she confirmed, not very sure about letting him go right then. Alma had vague memories of being hugged, by her parents before the transformations begun, and by her grandmother until the day she died. From that day on no one else had been this close, only Kroenen, and even though his breastplate was uncomfortable his arms around her felt good.

So she decided to shift into raven and stay on his shoulder until she couldn't stand as a raven anymore.

* * *

**Weeeeee, review?**


	11. Progenies of the Great Apocalypse

**Author's note: **to start with, thanks so much for the reviews! :D

Now, a little thing... I won't be able to update this story until September the 10th-something, because I'm an Archaeology student and tomorrow I'm going to field work. \m/ ò3ó I'll keep writing whenever I'm not being a wannabe professional archaeologist or riding on horseback, so I'll probably only update again in September. Also, I had planned a bigger chapter, but with packing and updating the other story I'm working on and confirming things with the Professor didn't give me much time. ;-;

Aw well, enjoy!

* * *

_Progenies of the Great Apocalypse (Dimmu Borgir)_

_The battle raged on and on_

_Fuelled by the venom of hatred for man_

_Consistently, without the eyes to see_

_By those who revel in sewer equally_

_We, the prosperity of the future seal_

_Cloaked by the thunders of the north wind_

_Born to capture the essence of_

_The trails of our kind_

_Zero tolerance must be issued forth_

_Behind the enemy's line_

_So it shall be written_

_And so it shall be done_

_Discover and conceive the secret wealth_

_And pass it unto your breed_

_Become your own congregation_

_Measure the sovereignty of it's invigoration_

_We, who not deny the animal of our nature_

_We, who yearn to preserve our liberation_

_We, who face darkness in our hearts with a solemn fire_

_We, who aspire to the truth and pursue it's strength_

_Are we not the undisputed prodigy of warfare_

_Fearing all the mediocrity that they possess_

_Should we not hunt the bastards down with our might_

_Reinforce and claim the throne that is rightfully ours_

_Consider the god we could be without the grace_

_Once and for all_

_Diminish the sub principle and leave it's toxic trace_

_Once and for all_

* * *

In the next day Alma was a little more confident and decided that walking around in «Kroenen's room» wouldn't harm her. But hearing the faint growls of the Sammaels, the young girl decided it was best to sit on the table, next to Kroenen, and watch him give some final touches (again) in some of his spare masks and clean his blades while listening to music. And few hours later, when the first opera finished, Alma took the chance to speak; she knew Kroenen didn't like to talk while listening to music:

"I'd like to hear you sing, one of these days," she said and grabbed one of the blades, and frowned because it seemed light but was actually heavy. Kroenen shook his masked head, slowly, examining one of his small daggers:

"That is not going to happen."

"Why not?"

"Because of reasons, Pooka. Don't do that, do you want to cut a finger?" And Kroenen hurried to take his blade away from Alma. She pouted, and he thought it was the perfect occasion to talk about killing the enemy. "Come here, I'm going to teach you how to hold this."

Alma squealed happily and jumped to the floor, all smiles and giggles and clapping her hands excitedly. Patiently, Kroenen stood up and made her stand in front of him, with her back touching his breastplate. Then he made her hold the blade's hilt and covered her hand with his', and started to make some basic attack movements:

"I feel so cool right now!" Alma exclaimed excitedly, allowing him to guide her hands and practically do all the work for her:

"One day you will do this alone, and you will kill our enemies," Kroenen said, imagining it was a nice way to start a topic that the girl would certainly dislike. And, as he expected, she froze. He let her hands go and made her spin around to face him, and he tilted his head to one side. "And maybe... have your revenge?"

Alma was paler than what she already was, her jaw was clenched and her green eyes widened. Then she frowned lightly:

"What do you mean with... kill...?" she asked. "Isn't Master... the eclipse and the Gods of Chaos... I mean..."

"I don't know what will happen, Pooka. All I know is that there will be fire, and destruction... but how, that is out of my reach," Kroenen sheathed the blade and patted her head. "I don't know how long it will take to create our Eden, and how the enemy will perish... All I know is that I like to be ready for everything... and I want you to be ready for everything, too," She opened her mouth to protest, but Kroenen hurried to add something else. "Master and Ilsa will respect and admire you for your ability to kill."

There, he had rubbed salt in the wound again. Alma just blinked her eyes, slowly, her green eyes fixed on the dark lenses of Kroenen's mask. He took the chance to hold her chin between his index finger and thumb, and now that she was fully focused on him, he proceeded his speech:

"That was one of the many things Ilsa always envied me for; I can use a sword, a firearm, my opponent's mind and fears... Ilsa can barely stand still when a pistol recoils..." He puffed his chest a little, proudly. "Just imagine how they will admire you! And then Master will give you important tasks!"

"I'm not very sure about killing people... I mean... why?" Alma asked shyly. The raven hadn't tell her that the something big that would happen required killing people. Alma had her dose of hatred towards humanity but... was it enough to kill? She could understand Kroenen's reasons; the solitude, the bullying in school, all the Nazi brainwashing... Alma had been cast aside by her family, yes, but at least they had left her alone and had given her enough things to keep her entertained. That wasn't enough to make her a killer. She sighed and gave a step back. "I... I have no reasons to kill, lad."

"You have! And you have a cause to fight for, kill for and die for!" he replied. Alma grew paler:

"«Die»...?"

Ah, another wound to rub salt on! Kroenen smiled slyly under his mask and placed both hands on Alma's shoulders:

"Yes, Alma... when we want to be part of something, when we want our cause to triumph... that requires self-sacrifice. I've told you this before, didn't I? How I bravely exposed myself to germs and bacteria for the greater good of our cause," He held her chin again, forcing her to look up at him. "You said you wanted to be part of this, that you stand for a world where people like you and me don't need to hide behind masks and bedroom doors... didn't you?" Alma nodded shyly. "You are doing well; you learn fast, your behaviour is better... now you just need to understand that _we must kill the enemy_, no matter what. It is us, or them. Who do you choose, a group of people who will lock you in a cage... or me?"

"You..." the girl mumbled without hesitation. Kroenen nodded, pleased; indeed, the scared and insecure girl under the mask of confidence, easy smiles and banter was much easier to deal with. The masked man was very glad Alma had showed him her real self, because like this things would be much easier for both of them, and no one would get hurt.

And Kroenen was actually allowing himself to like Alma, it would be a shame if he had to use arguments other than his words to convince her. He leaded her to the chair and made her sit, then he knelt in front of her and held her hands:

"Besides... Master won't let you die if you do everything right. Even I can stop you from dying... and getting wrinkles..." Kroenen smiled when she frowned lightly. "But you have to deserve it."

Alma looked down, unsure... but Kroenen sounded right. He was right, as always, and Alma smiled sadly; she felt his intentions were good, he just wanted to help her. That's what friends do, isn't it? She looked at him again, and her smile died:

"But Karl... won't I feel guilty, if I kill someone?" she asked quietly:

"No, because we are right. They are wrong," he assured patiently. Alma bit her lower lip carefully:

"What if I get scars...?"

"I'm sure there are beauty products to hide scars," Kroenen assured again and laughed. Alma rolled her eyes and smirked a little. "And Alma..." He squeezed her hands. "... I would actually feel better knowing you can defend yourself."

"I already can defend myself, remember? I've kicked your skinny arse once!" The Irish girl giggled.

"I was just being nice."

Alma just nodded and offered him an Irish smile. Kroenen just looked at her, pleased; there, now he could finally teach her something he was the best at. It would be amazing to create a companion with whom he would be able to practice, Rasputin would be pleased and Ilsa would be humiliated. With a sigh, he stood up and looked at their hands:

"Thank you for trusting me," he said.

* * *

Kroenen began his fencing lessons after Alma had lunch and kept teaching her until she told him to leave her alone since she wanted to eat her dinner and sleep.

In the next day, after she had breakfast, Kroenen proceeded his lessons. And it was actually going well, until a curious Sammael got in «his» chamber and scared Alma, who accidentally hit one of Kroenen's lenses with the end of the blade, shifted into a raven and decided that the top of Kroenen's masked head was the safest place in the room.

Kroenen was in the middle of the complicated process that was making Alma socialize with a Sammael when the sound of breaking glass and distant voices disturbed them.

The Sammael began to growl.

Alma shifted into a raven again.

And Kroenen found himself not knowing what to do; Rasputin had said that, without him, the traps were mortal... but on the other hand, there was someone invading the mausoleum, and the masked man was almost sure there weren't any traps in the catacombs, because he hadn't seen any gears and mechanisms. The German man frowned and winded himself up, ignoring the huge crack in one of his lenses:

"Go back to normal Alma, I need your help," he said. The raven, again on the top of his head, peeked at the non-ruined lens:

"What? There's a burglar in there and I've just started to learn how to hold one of those exquisite swords of yours correctly, how can I help you?"

"By telling me if there are any traps!" Kroenen made his way to the door and stepped in the corridor that would lead them to the catacombs, from where the shouting were coming. Letting out a barrage of profanity, the raven landed on the floor in front of Kroenen and shifted to human. The curious Sammael decided to follow them.

Instinct told the girl there wasn't anything to fear, but when they reached the entrance of the catacombs, Kroenen placed a hand on her shoulder and pulled her back:

"Wait here," he ordered and got in the catacomb. The Sammael followed him.

The first thing the masked man noticed was a huge block of stone being lowered by many ropes. There was shattered glass all around, and snow flakes were starting to pile under the opening in the glass dome. The day light was also filling the once comfortably dark space, and Kroenen hissed disapprovingly and stopped in the shadows beside a statute. Using his hand to protect his eyes, he looked up. But he couldn't see the men, only hear them.

More Sammaels appeared, all looking curiously at the descending stone and the broken dome. Kroenen recalled Rasputin saying something about recovering what was rightfully his. Was it that massive block of stone? But the Russian man was nowhere to be seen, or heard... Kroenen hurried to trot back to the corridor where he had left Alma, leaving behind the Sammaels that were still watching the descending stone:

"I need you to get outside and see if Master is there," Kroenen explained as he stopped near her. Alma nodded and shifted into a raven, and allowed Kroenen to get in her mind. Then she took flight towards the glass dome and managed to get out, avoiding the ropes that secured the stone.

The raven was momently disturbed by the sunlight, even though it was snowing lightly. A man shouted something in a strange language and Alma hurried to fly higher, avoiding a hand that intended to shoo her. Indignant, the raven looked down; there were 30 men in green uniforms and fur hats, each of them holding ropes and descending the stone, slowly. _Russian soldiers._, Kroenen's voice said in the raven's mind. Ilsa was standing nearby, watching them. Looking around, Alma noticed a deep trail in the snow, in the main and larger street of the mausoleum area; apparently, those men had dragged the massive block of stone.

Curious, the raven decided to find the beginning of the trail, and she discovered its origins outside the cemetery, where a huge military transporting vehicle was parked. Rasputin was near the vehicle, apparently chatting with the driver. Mission accomplished, and Alma made her way back, trying her best to avoid the soldiers as she dived into the catacomb.

The raven shifted to girl in front of Kroenen, at the same time he left her mind:

"So what now, Specky Four-Eyes?" she asked, now enthusiastic. The masked man looked at the Sammaels, hidden in the shadows; it was tempting to send them after those men, because he supposed Rasputin wouldn't want witnesses. But he also didn't want to take one false step and do something that didn't please his Master.

The block of stone finally notched in the big rabbet in the ground, and the ropes were released. From above came the cheers of the soldiers. Kroenen looked at the Sammaels and then to the opening in the dome... and decided that it was better to send the Sammaels than just staring:

"Kill the intruders," the masked man ordered the hell-hounds, that began to climb the stone walls of the catacomb excitedly, running to the opening in the dome:

"Ilsa and Master seemed to have everything under control," Alma said. Then came the sound of growls and screams, and then Ilsa's head peeked from the opening in the dome, upside down. But even like that anyone could understand perfectly she wasn't amused:

"Kroenen, you IDIOT!" she yelled, looking everywhere since she couldn't see him. "I had everything under control, why won't you STOP nosing around?"

"Yes, I did the right thing," Kroenen concluded contently, and Alma giggled. However, Kroenen knew he wouldn't be that content when Rasputin himself told him he had done the wrong thing. With a sigh, he placed a hand on Alma's shoulder. "Lets go back to our lesson, Pooka."

* * *

"Everything is going well!" Rasputin exclaimed later that day, when he and his followers were gathered in the catacomb, looking at the stone block. "Even with the unexpected cavalry charge. Didn't I tell you to stay quiet, Karl...?"

Kroenen looked down at his boots, ashamed; somehow, his Master's twisted sense of humor made Kroenen feel worse than his Master's yelling and wrath. It was like the Rasputin treated the clockwork assassin like a retarded child, whose poor handicapped mind couldn't grasp the difference between right and wrong, and so made it useless for anyone to yell at him. Ilsa sneered:

"I was going to cast them a spell to erase this day from their memory, I had everything under control! We can't be always leaving a trail of dead bodies behind!"

"They are going to die, anyway... or were..." Rasputin chuckled, amused, and began to pace back and forth. "Soon our enemy will be here, and thanks to my little eyes..." He looked at Alma, smiling, and the girl couldn't help but smile back, enthusiastic. "... I found a way to convince the Anung un Rama to cooperate with us."

_Shame on you, Kroenen. Even the teenage girl is doing better than you, «Hitler's top assassin...»..._, Ilsa's voice echoed in Kroenen's mind. He looked at her, at her little mocking smile, and grimaced under his mask; _No words can express how proud I am of her. And I'm sure she can hold a machine-gun better than you, so shut that venomous mouth of yours and wipe that _fucking_ grin off your face, before I do it myself!, _the masked man replied, still looking at Ilsa.

She narrowed her eyes and her smile died, slowly. Kroenen looked away; seemed that particular Irish trait of being rude during an argument was effective, he should try it more often.

When Rasputin dismissed Kroenen and Alma, and they made their way to «Kroenen's chamber», the masked man felt a sudden urge to laugh, to tell Alma about his little chat with Ilsa and how good it felt to be mouthy, even if right now she was complaining about him to their Master. But he couldn't care less, and Kroenen concluded Alma's easygoingness might be a little contagious. He was proud of the young girl and wondered if she would be proud of him too:

"I'm learning from you too, Pooka," Kroenen chuckled when they found themselves in the room. Alma looked at him and raised a perfect black eyebrow:

"Stop the lights! What did you learn?"

And Kroenen rocked himself back and forth, almost like a child who had behaved exceptionally well and was explaining to his parents why should he stay up until late:

"I told Ilsa to fuck off!"

"No shit, Specky Four-Eyes!" Alma laughed animatedly, widening her eyes. "How did I miss that?"

"She was speaking in my mind," Kroenen finally allowed himself to laugh. "I don't usually swear... but damn it, it felt so good!"

Alma just shook her head, smiling, and sat on the table. Then she picked up a sandwich from her backpack and began to eat. Kroenen, still laughing, sat on the chair in front of her. He reached for one of his spare masks in display over the table and sighed contently:

"So, Project Ragna Rok," he said. Alma widened her eyes and nodded excitedly:

"Yeah, you said you'd tell me!"

"And I am going to tell you."

* * *

_Eclipse day, Yefimovich mausoleum_

Alma felt someone shake her shoulder, carefully, and she tried to hide better in her blanket cocoon:

"No..." she grumbled:

"Pooka, come on..." Kroenen called patiently. "Wach auf!" (Wake up!)

"Whatever, no!"

"Very well, then. Maybe these Sammaels will manage to wake you up..."

"For fuck's sake, why did you let the Uglies in?" Alma shrieked and changed to a sitting position, eyes wide, and looked around. But there were no Sammaels. Only Kroenen laughing like a madman. The girl narrowed her eyes and pulled the hood down. "You gobshite..."

"We are going to triumph today, Alma! I am not letting you sleep through it!"

"But the eclipse is only at night! Come on, I'm sure the Seven Gods need some sleep too..."

"On your feet, young lady. There is more German to learn, and more fencing and shapeshifting and summoning to practice!"

With a defeated sigh, Alma stood up. Kroenen had been in a really good mood the last two days, happily teaching her basic German grammar and vocabulary, and he had proudly exhibited her still clumsy fencing skills to Rasputin, who was visibly pleased, and to Ilsa, who accused Kroenen of trying to turn Alma into his clone. He had even thrown caution to the wind and had climbed the catacomb walls with Alma holding tightly on him, only to show her the wonders of a cemetery covered in snow, hoping that would make her a little more comfortable in the city of the dead.

And he had succeeded in everything: in spite of her accent, Alma was learning to speak German quite fast, and Kroenen was sure she would have no troubles in writing; even though she was clumsy, she was revealing that, with time, she would be a good fencer; and, though Alma had been a little reluctant in the beginning, she had ended up enjoying to wander in the cemetery in Kroenen's company, and she had definitely loved the snow.

But Kroenen's victory had been her behaviour; she was now quiet and serious when Ilsa and Rasputin were around.

The masked man sat on the chair and put a record on the gramophone. Wagner's "Parsifal" filled the chamber as Alma sat on the table, in front of Kroenen, ate a few cereal bars for breakfast and then picked up a small mirror from her backpack and handed it to him. He held the mirror for her, watching as she undid her ponytail to comb her hair and then braided it, and watched as she retouched her black makeup. When she was done the German man stopped the music and stood up:

"German, shapeshifting, summoning or fencing?" he asked her. Alma thought for a while, then smiled:

"All of it!"

* * *

Alma had just finished her lunch, or better, Kroenen had just finished shoving a sandwich into Alma's mouth because she was so entertained with the fencing lesson she had forgotten to eat, when Ilsa walked into the chamber with a radiant smile. Her radiant smile died slowly when she saw the girl attempting to chew all that quantity of bread and fillings, still holding a blunt sword. Kroenen, standing next to Alma, crossed his arms.

Ilsa sighed and decided not to comment:

"Master is waiting. The enemy will be here soon," she informed and left.

Alma swallowed with difficulty:

"Is my makeup fine?"

"Perfect," Kroenen assured.

They hurried after Ilsa and when they joined her and Rasputin in the catacombs the Russian man had an open book over the altar, and was dressed in a dark ceremony robe. Alma thought the robe really made him look like a real occultist, lord of magic and master of spirits. It was just a piece of cloth, but was imposing nonetheless, and she could barely believe that she had been making herself a fool before such a powerful man.

But thanks Gods Kroenen was there to tell her what to do.

The masked man and the Irish girl stopped next to Ilsa, in front of the altar. Across it, Rasputin looked at them, smiling widely, and his glass eyes had a different shine, fierce and crazed, and the constant tapping on the yellowish pages of the book suggested he was very impatient:

"At last, the day has come! Our victory, taken away from us many decades ago," The Russian man paused and _something_ flicked under the skin of his arms. Or maybe, thought Alma, it had been just a trick of the light. "Now, finally, the Seven Gods of Chaos will be released, and they will destroy our enemy. And finally, my Musketeers... and my D'Artagnan... we will have our Eden, to live peacefully among the deities that rejected the insignificance of mankind."

By the corner of his eye, Kroenen saw Ilsa wipe a happy tear away. He himself was joyful, but he was aware that they still had a (hopefully) last battle. And even though Kroenen loved a good fight, he was expecting the enemy to give them a hard time.

Rasputin bypassed the altar and, smiling, placed his hands on Alma's shoulders. Her senses came to a sudden alert and she widened her eyes, like a scared horse:

"Little one... things would have been more difficult for us, if it hadn't been for your eyes. Fly again, find the enemy, let me see how many they are and what are their weapons," Rasputin ordered, always smiling, and he actually looked friendly.

Alma just nodded, her green eyes still watchful and wide.

* * *

_Present day, cemetery near Moscow_

A raven flew in wide circles above the cemetery. Apparently, the enemy hadn't arrived. Alma decided to leave the cemetery for a little and try the road, and began to fly in circles above the closer section to the cemetery.

Then she began to hear the soft purr of engines, some time before she was able to see the black and big vehicles appearing in the horizon. Alma then flew in the opposite direction, leaving both the road and the cemetery a few meters behind. _What are you doing, little one?_, Rasputin asked softly in her mind. Alma began to lose altitude, and when she was relatively close to the ground covered in snow the raven became a mare. Rasputin didn't say anything else, but Alma felt his curiosity.

When he had told her she was going to spy on the enemy, an enemy she knew nothing about, she immediately imagined that a fluffy black mare would have much more chances to approach them than an ominous raven with a pair of watchful eyes.

And so, when the sound of the engines and tires on snow became gradually louder and louder, and the mare saw the vehicles stopping and people coming out of it, Alma snorted and trotted to the new-arrived. There were two vans and a truck, all black, and the mare went straight towards the people who came out of the truck.

It was a young woman and a young man, and the woman was the first to see the black mare; as a mare, Alma was short, chubby and sturdy, with long and wave black mane and tail. In the meantime, two men were unloading a huge wooden crate. A third man joined them, the older of them all, and there were other two men coming:

"Oh, look!" the woman exclaimed, smiling, and Alma stopped right in front of her; it was the woman she had spied in the yard of a mental hospital, in New York, the woman the Anung un Rama had paid a visit to. The mare tilted its big head to one side, with its small ears forwards. "It's so adorable! Where did you come from, cutie?" And she raised her hand to pet the mare's forehead and muzzle. The young man next to her smiled and petted the mare's neck:

"It's a horse, it doesn't speak…" the older man grumbled. Alma looked around; everybody but the old man was looking at her with amusement. The mare looked around again, making sure Rasputin would see exactly how many they were.

Then suddenly the crate wavered and Alma let out an acute snort, looking with wide eyes to the crate:

"I wanna get out, mind taking me out or I'll have to get out of my own?" the crate, or what was inside the crate, asked. The two men hurried to open it, and the red creature that Alma had followed in the Machen Library and around New York stepped out:

"Red, look!" the woman called, and hugged Alma's neck. The mare just stood there, patiently, and mimicked the curious look the red demon cast her:

"You never hugged me like that, and I have a tail too!" he replied with a smile and approached the chubby black mare. Alma looked curiously at his huge hand. The Anung un Rama patted her on the poll. "Yeah, cute pony. But we got some baddies to take care of, and this little friend here is no baddie."

The mare snorted again as everyone queued behind the truck. Alma followed them, and watched curiously as they unloaded what she supposed to be fancy firearms, because they had the shape of firearms, and some sort of ammo belts with grenades. The older man was grumpily telling the others to hurry up.

A group of six – the bad humoured man, the young man, the woman, the Anung un Rama and two other men – crossed the main gates of the cemetery. The remaining returned to one of the vans. The black mare trotted around the vehicles one last time, allowed the two men to pet her head and then galloped away, in the opposite direction of the vehicles, and disappeared behind the cemetery.

A raven emerged from behind the spiked fences covered in dead vines, rust and snow.

* * *

Alma landed in the cold stone floor of the catacomb, in front of Rasputin, Ilsa and Kroenen. The raven grew in size and became human, and was greeted by Rasputin's feral grin:

"Brilliant, little one!" he exclaimed, placing his hands on Alma's shoulders. Her senses hurried to raise a red flag, but still the girl smiled, pleased. "Brilliant. But now… we have to hide you; we don't want the enemy to find you, you are our surprise factor… and I believe, Kroenen, she isn't ready yet for a real fight."

"She isn't," the masked man confirmed. Rasputin nodded and turned his back at his followers:

"Go to your post, Kroenen. You can go with him, little one, as long as you hide well."

Alma nodded, even though Rasputin couldn't see, and trotted happily after Kroenen. They left the catacombs in silence, but once they reached the tunnel the masked man looked at her and raised a threatening index finger:

"Disinfect your face, now!" he hissed. Alma frowned:

"What the fuck, Specky Four-Eyes?"

"Master showed us, all those hands on you! You, young lady, are highly contaminated! Disinfect, now!"

They reached the chamber. With an annoyed sigh, Alma slipped a hand into a pocket and found a small bottle of hand-antiseptic. She poured some of the liquid on her hands and them rubbed them on her face:

"My makeup better be in place, you little plonker…" she grumbled. Kroenen gave her little attention and sat on the chair, watching as she disinfected her face:

"Your makeup is fine," he assured, and smiled under his mask. "You do are a Pooka; I would love the see their faces if they knew what this cute pony really is…"

But of course, Alma was much more than a mere Pooka. The girl made a face:

"I'm not a pony!" she complained. "And I do like your other mask better…"

"Next time, be more careful with it," Kroenen chuckled and placed a record on the gramophone. "Now turn into a raven and hide on the gears on the ceiling."

"Yay, I'll watch you kick arse again!" the girl chirped happily and did as she was told. Wagner's "Das Rheingold" filled the chamber, and Kroenen puffed his chest proudly; yes, he was going to defeat whoever came through that arched entry, that would surely inspire Alma to train hard and become as good as he.

And, deep inside, the masked man couldn't help but enjoy her attention and admiration.

* * *

**Weeeeee, review?**


	12. Progenies of the Great Apocalypse II

**Author's note: **hello everybody! Thanks for the reviews. :)

Now, thanks to my carelessness, an old lesion finished my archaeological adventure one week earlier... ._. And since I came home earlier, my intention was to write a bigger chapter, but frustration isn't exactly a writer's best friend.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

_Eclipse night, Yefimovich mausoleum_

It all had gone wrong.

Kroenen had been kicked around and ultimately smashed under a giant cogwheel.

The Sammaels had been turned into ashes.

Rasputin had died and the Octopus of Doom that had crawled out of him had smashed Ilsa with a tentacle.

And now even the Octopus of Doom had exploded...

Alma had seen it all, as a terrified raven hidden in the shadows.

As soon as the enemy was gone, Alma threw caution to the wind and shifted into human again, in «Kroenen's chamber». She did her best not to look at his blades, still stuck on the floor, with his prosthetic hand holding one of the hilts, and managed to jump into the pit where Kroenen was, avoiding the spikes. Old bones cracked under her jackboots. In the deafening silence, the girl could hear clearly the weak sound of Kroenen's clockwork heart:

"Karl? Karl, please be alive... Karl!" she begged, her voice reduced to a whisper as she knelt between the spikes. There was a huge puddle of blood, next to her. With tears burning her eyes, Alma bent forwards and peeked under the cogwheel.

Kroenen's head was turned to her, a blue eye looking at her from the destroyed mask on his face. His body was shaken by weak convulsions, and he was bleeding. Bleeding too much, suspended above the ground by the spikes. The only good thing was that, thanks to the spikes, the cogwheel hadn't smashed him at all; it was just trapping him. The scent of blood and iron and rust was horribly strong and Alma grimaced, disturbed:

"K-Karl?" she called again. His chest rose a little, suddenly:

"Take me out!" he hissed angrily. Alma wiped a tear away:

"How?"

But as an answer she got a series of very, very wrathful German growls and curses. Alma felt Kroenen was not in his best mood, and she couldn't really blame him. The girl stood up and looked around nervously, trying to figure out how to lift that huge cogwheel and then pull Kroenen off the spikes. No brilliant idea came to her mind and Alma, in panic, felt tears run down her face:

"A lever, stupid girl! A lever!" Kroenen roared furiously from under the cogwheel. Alma looked around once more; a lever, how was she supposed to find a lever? Then it hit her; she could summon a lever! Or anything to work as a lever!

She slipped her shaky hands into her pockets, but nothing came out. She bit her lower lip nervously:

"H-how am I supposed to find a lever?" she asked sadly. Kroenen replied something in German, something surely unpleasant:

"A hydraulic jack, take a goddamned hydraulic jack from your goddamned pockets!" he finally instructed after his rant. Alma kicked the giant cogwheel angrily, resulting in instant regret and anger:

"Don't you fucking talk to me like that, fuck!"

"Do you want to switch places, you idiot?"

Alma cursed under her breath and slipped a hand into one of her pockets again:

"A hydraulic jack, _please_!" she whispered.

This time her pocket gave her what she asked for. The girl hurried to slip it into the space between the cogwheel and the ground as closer as possible to Kroenen, realised she had to unlock the locking mechanism first and then finally began to move the lever up and down. The cogwheel began to lift, slowly:

"_Faster_!" Kroenen roared impatiently. Besides tears, Alma felt sweat drops run down her face. The hydraulic jack creaked ominously, but she opted to ignore it:

"Fuck you!" the girl hissed in return.

She had lifted the cogwheel just enough to get under it, crouched, but Kroenen saved her from doing that; he finally had space enough to move. With a gruesome howl and a brute movement, Kroenen raised his impaled leg and released it from the spike. Alma felt suddenly sick with that and with all the blood gushing from his leg, and when she understood he would use the same method to release his torso, she scrambled to her feet and gave a few steps back, stumbling on old bones and the remains of Kroenen's gramophone.

Another horrid, gruesome shriek.

A moment of silence, and Alma's heart skipped a beat when the sound of Kroenen's clockwork mechanisms seemed to decrease significantly.

But then, slowly, he dragged himself from under the cogwheel and around the spikes, breathing slowly and clearly with immense difficulty. Alma began to sob:

"Oh my... Karl!" she cried and fell on her knees. Stubbornly, Kroenen dragged himself towards her, leaving behind a bloody trail. Alma cried harder when her eyes locked on the wound in his back:

"Master... where's Master... Ilsa... where's Ilsa..." he hissed and immobilized completely next to Alma, having no more strength or energy to move. Alma's hands were shaking uncontrollably, but she managed to slip them into her pockets:

"Dead...! They're all dead, don't you d-dare dying too, you fucking gobshite!" she exclaimed. Kroenen's ruined body tensed up:

"Dead..." he repeated, and Alma only heard him thanks to her accurate hearing. From her pockets, the girl removed two rolls of bandages and gauze:

"Dead."

Crying, feeling disgusted and with her hands shaking so much it was nearly impossible to move them, Alma covered the wound on Kroenen's leg with gauze and managed to bandage it. But when she moved to try to make something for the wound on his back, he tried to move away, unsuccessfully:

"Don't... don't touch me...!" he hissed angrily. They had lost. Again. Rasputin was gone. Again! And now he was stuck with Alma! Which one was worse, Ilsa or Alma? In that moment both options sounded horrible, but Alma, due to her inexperience, sounded the worst of all. "Leave me alone!"

"Shut the fuck up and stay quiet!" Alma yelled and out of frustration and despair she hit him with a closed fist near the wound in his back.

Kroenen's weak and ragged breathing caught in his throat; for surprise, for a wave of pain that was nearly unbearable and for another smaller wave of pain that was most inappropriate in that moment. He stilled nonetheless, even because that was his only option, and allowed Alma to cover his back and chest wounds with gauze and then bandage him.

Then they stood like that for a moment, Alma crying and looking at her bloodied hands, and Kroenen slowly getting used to the horrible pain in his body. And as he began to get used, some of his common sense came back; if Ilsa and Rasputin were dead, they couldn't stay there. Yet he wanted to see... wanted the proof...

He tried to push himself up, but he failed:

"W-what are you doing?" Alma asked between sobs. Kroenen sighed and tried again:

"We can't stay here... Master... I need to see..."

Sniffling, Alma managed to help Kroenen to stand up, but he had to support all of his weight on her; and, disregarding his slender appearance, Kroenen was heavy. After a little argument on how to take him out of the pit, Alma ended up wrapping ropes around Kroenen, shifted to a raven and flew to the upper floor. Then she wrapped the end of the ropes around her own neck, but left them lose enough for a horse neck. She shifted into a mare, concluded it was a little too tight, but still pulled the masked man out of the pit.

Kroenen groaned tiredly when he finally found himself in safety. Alma shifted to human again and pulled his abandoned blades from the floor, together with his prosthetic hand, stubbornly holding the hilt of one of the blades. The girl returned the blades and the hand to their owner, and shifted to mare again. Then the black mare knelt next to Kroenen, patiently, and the German man frowned under the remains of his mask. Yet he accepted the offering and, slowly and painfully, he managed to curl his fingers around Alma's mane and drag himself to her back.

The smell of Kroenen's blood together with the wrath and malice of his being, so close and so raw like that, was terrifying. The black mare stood up, the most carefully she could, and tried hard not to shake with fear. The thought of having the masked man's blood all over her wasn't pleasing, either.

Finally, with slow steps, Alma left the destroyed chamber. It took them a while to reach the catacombs, because she was constantly feeling Kroenen slipping off her back, and his ineptitude of doing such a basic thing that was holding onto all that mane was annoying him a lot, and he began to be brute when trying to hold on, and went on an almost endless ramble about how Alma was useless and couldn't do anything right, ramble he only stopped when she yelled at him at the top of her lungs that she would shift into a raven, go away and leave him alone.

After what seemed an eternity, they reached the catacombs. Kroenen, using all the little strength he had gathered until the moment, forced his arms to push his torso to an upright position, which was quite difficult, with the damage done to his spine. He looked as graceless as Don Quixote while he looked around, to the remains of the dead Behemoth. And were those Ilsa's legs, coming from under one of the tentacles...?

Anyway, Alma was right; both Master and Ilsa were gone. For now. The German man sighed sadly, he knew the drill; run, hide, recover and wait. His arms ran out of strength and he fell over the mare's neck, but then rolled to the ground and fell on his back with a hiss of pain. Alma shifted to human and knelt next to him. Her makeup was a mess; the eyeliner and mascara had been washed away by the tears, and had drawn long black lines down her face, and her lipstick had teeth-marks from where Alma had bitten her lips in distress. Her clothes were dusty and bloodstained. With Kroenen's blood. Her hair was getting messy, too.

Kroenen shook his head, slowly; Alma's appearance wasn't important right now:

"The book... the book Master carried around... find it," he told Alma. Her green eyes filled with tears again:

"But there's octopus' goo everywhere! I don't want to-"

"I didn't ask if you wanted to, I ORDERED you to! Now stop complaining and find the damned book, stupid girl!" Kroenen yelled. Then he began to cough. Alma opened her mouth to yell at him in return, but no words came out of her mouth. Instead she cried harder and ran to the center of the catacomb, to where the altar and the book where supposed to be. Kroenen felt blood running down the corners of his lipless mouth and chin, making its way down his neck and out of the destroyed mask; seemed that had made Alma do what she was told.

The Irish girl cried and cursed while looking for the book. She did her best not to look at Ilsa's lifeless legs. Had this been the something big and important the raven had talked about? This was nothing like Kroenen had told her! Kroenen had told her they would win, but failure was all she saw. And damn it, she knew Kroenen was in an horrendous ammount of pain... but did he had to talk to her like that? Couldn't he understand how terrified she was with all of that? And confused. And lost. And yet all she wanted to do was to somehow help him and leave that horrible place with him.

Finally, she found the book. It wasn't far from the destroyed altar, right under a fleshy piece of a tentacle. Alma felt like puking when her hand touched the slimy thing to remove the book from under it. Instead of puking she cried harder and ran to Kroenen, falling on her knees next to him:

"There, the fucking book!" she sobbed and threw the book over his chest. Accidentally, it landed right over the impaling wound. Kroenen snarled in pain but managed to hold the book and open it:

"Get chalk," he grumbled and found the page he was looking for. He placed the open book over his chest, carefully, and his mechanical hand rested over it with the index finger pointing the engraving. "Draw this. And make it correctly!"

Alma sobbed something but did what Kroenen told her to do. Kroenen sighed exhaustedly, wondering if only the two of them... well, mostly if Alma would be able to open the teleportation portal to take them back to the castle in Moldavia. Lying there, wounded and useless, he regretted deeply having wasted time teaching her German, and fencing, and all the absurd quantity of time they spent talking to each other; he should have taught her useful things, like opening portals, invoking spirits and shadows and demons...:

"Done," Alma said, bringing Kroenen back to reality. Slowly, he moved his head to look at the circle with runes Alma had done in the ground, and concluded she had done it around him. Clever, he had to admit. She came to kneel next to him again:

"For your own good, this better be perfect..." Kroenen grumbled ominously:

"What if it isn't?"

"You die," He grinned under the remains of his mask. "For the two of us, since I have a mechanism keeping me in this world..."

"Shut the fuck up!" Alma began to cry again, terrified, and looked from the drawing to the book frantically; it seemed like the one in the book, but was it enough? Where the runes perfect enough? Was the circle round enough? Kroenen ignored her:

"Put the book in front of you, in the ground, and give me your hands. You must focus to open a portal to take us back to the castle in Moldavia, are we understood?" he asked and coughed again. More blood, this time he could taste it. Alma nodded, the makeup on her eyes ruined beyond repair.

They held hands and Kroenen grumbled the formula in the ancient language.

Then Alma felt like someone was vacuum cleaning her with a giant and hyper-powerful vacuum cleaner, and it was so powerful it wasn't only sucking at her skin, but also underneath it. It was painfull, like the vacuum cleaner was slowly peeling her skin inch by inch, and then the flesh under it, and then the bones, and then the empty space left by her bones. It was horrible, especially because she found herself unable to move, even though she wanted to move and try to escape whatever was causing her pain:

"Karl-" she opened her mouth to protest, to beg him to stop, but he squeezed her hands harder, using his last useful energy:

"Shut up and do one thing right, once in your life!" the German man snarled.

That hurt. More than him being rude and yelling at her, and even more than whatever was happening to her in that moment. Alma burst into tears and felt like the invisible super-vaccum cleaner was even stronger. She began to whimper in pain, and even though she seemed rooted to the spot her entire body began to shake.

Slowly, a small purple flame rose from the book. And the worse the pain was and the more Alma screamed, the bigger the flame grew, until it was steady and the pain was gone.

Alma fell forwards and hit her face on the cold stone ground, completely drained of energy and unconscious.

Kroenen looked at the flame. He let out a chuckle, his hand still holding Alma's in a lifeless grip. They stood like that for a while, until the masked man managed to hold the girl's hands again and, painfully slowly, dragged himself and her through the purple flame in what felt like a lifetime.

But they were finally in the dinning room of the castle in Moldavia, and Kroenen let go of Alma's hand to hold the book and bring it to their side. With a last effort, Kroenen closed the book.

The purple flame vanished.

Kroenen and Alma were alone, in their old headquarters.

The German man inhaled deeply and slowly, and concluded he would have to stay there for a while. And as he laid there, looking to the ribbed vaulting ceiling above and feeling his body build up a little bit of energy and strenght, he felt guilty. Slowly, he turned his head to look at Alma; the girl looked like a tossed ragdoll and her face was covered by her messy ponytail. She surelly had been terrified with all of that; afterall, she had been told and promised something that hadn't happened. The masked man looked at the ceiling again and forced himself to think; that was the only way to keep himself conscious, and he by no means could afford falling unconscious and literally bleed out. The black magic would make him live and the clockwork heart would keep pumping, but Kroenen had no idea of how his life would be. So he had to stay awaken...

He grinned bitterly, thinking about the previous happenings; he had failed. He had displeased his Master. He hadn't accomplished his mission of stopping whoever crossed the bridge, and probably because of that Rasputin's plans had failed. Kroenen didn't know what happened, he would have to ask Alma to tell him, but it surely had been his fault. Slowly, he looked at the unconscious girl lying next to him; Alma was his only way of redemption. If he taught her well while waiting for a sign of Rasputin, maybe his Master would forgive him, and the next time they had to face their enemy Alma would be ready to help, and maybe having someone else by their side, someone with her powers and capacities... maybe that would make the difference.

The guilt felt heavier. Kroenen hadn't only failed Rasputin, he had failed Alma, too. He could barely believe he had regretted all the relaxed conversations they had, because now the masked man knew that, if it hadn't been for all that time they spent together in a friendlier environment, Alma wouldn't have saved him. She would have left, gone back to Ireland, because there would be nothing left for her.

And if it hadn't been for her... The masked man shook his head, he didn't want to think about how he would have to manage by himself.

Kroenen rolled over his side, then over his stomach. He reached out for Alma and petted her head clumsily:

"I'm sorry, Pooka. I really am," he mumbled, even though he knew she couldn't hear him, and that later he would have to repeat his apologies. Slowly, feeling like there was a sharp blade digging deep into every inch of his body, Kroenen dragged himself away, to the dungeons. "I have to fix myself, then I can fix you."

* * *

Alma opened her eyes; her head ached... no, her entire body ached. She felt dizzy. Briefly forgotten about what had happened, the girl changed to a sitting position and looked around. Memories from the recent events flooded her mind with the brutality of a powerful blow, and she even lost her balance and had to lay down on the cold stone floor again.

But she didn't take long to stand up completely, looking around with wide eyes; where was Kroenen? Then her eyes caught the trail of blood he had left, and, limping, the girl followed it.

Yet she stopped at the entrance to the dungeons. She knew the German man was terribly wounded and in pain. But Alma was hurt with the way he had spoken to her, she couldn't understand what reasons he had to be rude _at her_. So the girl decided to leave him alone.

She went upstairs, to her room, had a shower and went to sleep, feeling exhausted. The exhaustion and the memory of Rasputin dying made it difficult to keep her old tormenting memories at bay, and Kroenen's voice insulting her echoing in her head didn't help. Somehow Alma knew she should be in panic and devastated about Rasputin's death... well, it was bad, yes, and she had no idea of what to do know, but Kroenen was still around, and as long as Kroenen was there the girl felt like there was no real reason to panic.

Be Kroenen in a good mood or not...

In the next day Alma woke up late in the evening. She was starving, her body still ached and she still felt dizzy. The girl didn't bother to change from her pajamas to something else, and didn't even bother to comb her hair or to put on her makeup. Yet as she passed by the dressing table, a huge hematoma on her forehead caught her attention for brief seconds, then she shrugged and went to the kitchen.

She mentally thanked Kroenen for making her practice by summoning canned food, otherwise she wouldn't have anything to eat. And in that moment she surely wouldn't be able to shift into a raven or a mare and feed herself as an animal. Even though the girl didn't know how to cook, three cans of tuna fish and two cans of sausages proved to be enough to calm her hunger for a while. Alma then considered going to the dungeon and find Kroenen... but she was still hurt with him.

So she went back to her room, and for the next three days that was her routine; wake up, eat canned tuna and sausages, go back to the room and sew a little, eat canned tuna and sausages again and go to sleep.

On the fourth day, Alma, still wearing swimming shorts and a tank top as a pajama, slipped her feet into her ballerina flats and decided to go to the dungeon and check on Kroenen.

Unlike the last time she had visited the dungeons, there was no music in the air. Only the weak light at the end of the corridor. And a strong scent of blood and iron that made the girl flare her nostrils like a spooked horse. Quickly, Alma crossed the corridor and found herself before the heavy wooden door that separated Kroenen from the world. The scent of blood and iron was stronger now. At the other side of the door, everything was silent.

Too silent.

With a frown, Alma opened the door and stepped in the cell.

It was exactly like the last time she had been there... with the difference that, instead of finding Kroenen standing, about to peel himself alive, the young girl found him unconscious on the ground, with a horrid stitch on his naked chest and a less horrid stitch on his leg. He had ripped the suit around the wound, so that he could work on his leg. Scattered on the ground around him and over the table were various metallic pieces, chains, screws, blood-drenched cloths, his ruined mask and an old first-aid kit. Kroenen was still holding the needle with thread, so apparently he had passed out little time before Alma appeared.

The girl just stared at him in mute terror. Without eyelids, and lying like that, over a small puddle of his own blood, Kroenen looked like a decaying corpse. It was the worst thing Alma had ever seen, and for a second all the girl wanted was to turn around and run, run away from that nightmare and never see such thing again.

She began to sob. Poor Kroenen, how could she even consider turning her back on that unfortunate creature? He was always bragging on how he could manage by himself, and look at him now! Crying, Alma moved closer to him. She could hear his «heartbeat», even though his chest didn't rise or fall. Alma recalled when he told her he was impregnated of black magic, and the girl decided she didn't really want to know the details. Carefully, she moved around him and held his arms, and even more carefully began to drag him away.

* * *

Discreetly, Kroenen's chest rose and fell, slowly. His glassy eyes twitched and stung for a few seconds, before getting used again to the lack of eyelids to blink the dryness away. That alerted him to the fact that he didn't have his mask on.

Kroenen found himself staring at the ceiling of his room. Of his bedroom, not his cell.

Yet he could swear he had gone to his cell... Yes, he had gone there, had washed the wounds and had stitched them closed, so that he would have less troubles while repairing himself. In fact, he actually managed to successfully re-open the wound in his leg, replace the shattered bone with metal and stitch the muscle and skin again. Then he had intended to do the same to his spine, that was always complicated to work on, but he had also succeeded in replacing the damaged vertebrae, nerves and ligaments with metal, wires and a few variations of spells that he knew by heart from the "Book of the Dead"* to help him to progress. Yet the German man had realised he wouldn't manage to keep repairing himself without resting first, so he had left his hapless internal organs and sternum for another time and had stitched the wound in his chest closed again.

And that was when he had passed out.

So... how did he end up in his bedroom...? Confused, Kroenen raised his head to look around; he was lying on his bed, still had what was left of his suit on... and noticed Alma, sleeping on the recamier at the other side of the room.

Kroenen's sleepy brain took a little to finally realise what had happened. When he did, he groaned and allowed his head to fall back on the pillow; there, seemed Alma was doomed to see him in his worst moments! Poor girl, it was a miracle that she hadn't had a heart-attack.

Or ran away...

Supporting his weight on his elbow, Kroenen pushed himself up and cleared his throat:

"Alma?" he called in a hoarse, raspy voice. He cleared his throat again. "Alma. Pooka."

Alma opened one eye, tiredly, and saw Kroenen was finally awaken. Without knowing how, she found herself sitting at the edge of his bed, her arms wrapped tightly around him and resting her head on the crook of his neck. The scent of blood and iron lingered on him.

She burst out crying for the umpteenth time in those two days Kroenen had been unconscious.

Kroenen tensed up, too many things coming to his mind; he was unprotected against the germs (the germs! The germs were everywhere now!), Alma hadn't disinfected and was touching him!, and she was breathing on him!... but then he relaxed, slowly; he still had the antiseptic that burned the germs, there was no reason to worry about that... and after all Alma had done for him, Kroenen decided he could stand her breathing and crying and clinging to him like her life depended on that. For a little ammout of time, of course.

And, deep inside, he was glad she was there.

So he wrapped his free arm around her shoulders, and they stood like that for a while, until she calmed down a little and pulled away to look at him.

The German man frowned his hairless eyebrows; no neat hairstyle, no makeup, no pretty clothes, no jewelry... and her face seemed thinner, and her skin yellowish, and her eyes were reddened, puffy and with huge dark circles under them. Kroenen laid down again, and let out a joyless laugh:

"Seems we both have seen better days..." he commented. Alma offered him the saddest smile in the world, and Kroenen concluded he didn't want to see it again:

"Guess so..." the girl replied. Her voice was hoarse, and that made Kroenen's frown grow bigger:

"What happened to your voice?"

"I spent nearly two days yelling at your ear, but you... you wouldn't wake up," Alma shrugged, like it hadn't been important at all. "You... you didn't have a pulse... you weren't breathing... but your heart was working... so, I decided to let you be."

Kroenen would have shut his eyes if he had eyelids. He felt touched, because the Irish girl had truly worried about him, and he felt terribly guilty again because of how he had treated her. The German man looked at her, studying her exhausted face:

"I'm sorry, Pooka," he mumbled, at a loss of words. "For everything."

"Nevermind..." Alma mumbled and shrugged again. Well, Kroenen had apologised, that was something. "Just stop... dying, or whatever... and then coming back to life all miserable and stuff like that..."

"Then stop finding me in inappropriate situations," Kroenen replied and his lipless mouth offered Alma the brave attempt of a smile. But the girl wasn't in the mood for smiling, and Kroenen had to admit that seeing Alma like that was getting on his nerves. "So... if I was out for two days... it has been... a week or so since..." His voice became bitter. "... since the eclipse."

"Aye," Alma sighed and started to play with her fingers. Kroenen noticed the black nailpolish was missing too, and he concluded Alma had to be a complete wreck inside. "Karl, what do we do, now?" The masked man sighed, tiredly; well, he had... almost fixed himself. A whole day of work would be enough to fix the mess in his chest. That had time, now he had something else to fix. Gently, he took Alma's hands between his:

"We recover, we wait... and in the meantime you are going to learn from me," he said softly, hoping those glorious plans would make Alma feel better.

The young girl just nodded and her eyes filled with tears again. At this point Alma didn't even know why she was crying, and how she hadn't already spent all her tears. Kroenen was about to try to sit when she swung her legs over the bed and lied down next to him, hiding her face again in the crook of his neck. Kroenen wasn't particularly comfortable with all that too sudden and too intimate contact, but... fine, just this time. Maybe if he stirred her hair she would get better quicker and would stop invading his personal space like that.

But her warm body against his didn't feel that bad. And Alma had probably taken a bath, she couldn't have that much germs on her. And her hair felt nice against the scarred skin of his fingers. The sobbing stopped, gradually, and her breathing against his neck steadied. Kroenen looked at her by the corner of his eye:

"Pooka?" he called. "You didn't fall asleep on me, did you?"

She did. Kroenen sighed, but he would allow it this time. He looked up at the ceiling and decided to rest a little longer too, and it didn't take him long to fall asleep.

* * *

*The "Book of the Dead" is an Ancient Egyptian funerary text that contains spells to help a dead person during their journey through the Underworld and into the Afterlife.

**Weeeee, review?**


	13. Runes Shall You Know

**Author's note:** so sorry for the late! ;-; Papers and exams are coming!

Anyway, thanks so much for the reviews! They make me feel great!

About the time lines, I forgot to mention that «present day» = 2004, because of the first Hellboy movie.

* * *

_Runes Shall You Know (Falkenbach)_

_A first weary glance at a ruby horizon,_  
_The last glittering stars now passing from view._  
_The last dream is fading, the daybreack has come,_  
_For this morn, now dawning, might be the last._

_Runes shall ye know on untrodden ways._  
_Know how to scratch know how to grasp._  
_Few only know that Othin obtained._

_Runes shall ye know on untrodden ways._  
_Know how to round and how to attain._  
_Few only know whom Freya will chose._

_Ere forenoon came closer that very last day, _  
_The sun riding high on a watchet cloudless sky._  
_I left all behind me to follow the path,_  
_Untrodden for ages by none but the gods._

_Runes shall ye know on untrodden ways._  
_Know how to scratch know how to grasp._  
_Few only know what Othin obtained._

_Runes shall ye know on untrodden ways._  
_Know how to round and how to attain. _  
_Few only know whom Freya will chose._

_The bridge lies ahead know, shining and clear,_  
_Bright and golden, the lowlands behind._  
_For I am to walk on the untrodden path,_  
_To follow the soundings, to never return._

_Runes shall ye know on untrodden ways._  
_Know how to throw, know how to read._  
_Few only know how to open the gate._

* * *

_Present day, castle in Moldavia, December_

"OFF HER, NOW!" Kroenen ordered, pressing a small glass jar over Alma's mouth. The girl, pinned down on the floor between his knees and unable to move due to his mechanical hand on her neck, smiled maliciously:

"What if I don't want to? This is quite an interesting place to be!" she replied. Better, the spirit controlling Alma replied.

Kroenen groaned; Alma's first time invoking spirits couldn't have been worst... He should have known she wasn't strong enough to keep away the bad spirits. A little demon crawled next to Kroenen, looking at the scene curiously. Kroenen groaned again; the portal was still open, _things_ could come out of it while he was busy trying to get that damned spirit off the girl... but right now Alma was his priority:

"Don't try me..." Kroenen grumbled and tightened the grip around Alma's neck. The malicious smile died, slowly:

"Would you harm her, just to get me in that jar?" And Alma widened her eyes and coughed. "What... what the fuck... I can't... I can't breathe... shite...!"

"I'm sorry, Pooka..." the German man mumbled and pressed one of his knees over her sternum. She coughed harder and her eyes filled with tears, but then the malicious smile was back:

"Aw, but I'm so busy with these really interesting memories!"

"GET OFF HER!"Holding tightly on Alma's neck, Kroenen banged her head on the floor. Her face contorted into a wrathful expression and she let out an ear-splitting shriek. Slowly, a shapeless yellow steam crawled out of the girl's mouth and settled in the jar:

"At least I had fun..." the spirit hissed when the masked man hurried to close the jar. He stood up, looking at Alma's unconscious body, and kicked away the little demon that stretched a hand to claw at the girl:

"Away with you!" Kroenen growled. The little demon whimpered and ran to the open portal in the middle of the dinning room, diving into the black bottomless pit spinning slowly in the floor. Another demon tried to come out, but Kroenen kicked it in the face:

"All this violence!" the spirit commented bemusedly before Kroenen threw the bottle into the portal and ordered it to close. Then, with a sigh, the masked man went to inspect the castle just to be sure nothing else had came out of the portal.

Apparently, everything was fine. He returned to the dinning room, where Alma still lied unconscious on the floor, and he knelt next to her:

"Pooka?" he called and slapped her face softly. However, Alma didn't react. Kroenen grimaced under his mask; maybe he hit her head too hard, or maybe the spirit messed her mind to leave her unconscious, or maybe both. With a sigh, the masked man hauled her up and carried her to her room. Once Kroenen got there, he lied her on the bed and then went to sit at the window, looking outside. It was December and the snow was piling outside. Alma would be really pleased with all that snow and would surely turn into a raven and go outside through the chimney, like she had done the previous days when Kroenen had told her to stay inside and study.

He glanced over his shoulder, to the bed, and rolled his eyes; the moment she woke up, he was going to lecture her for escaping like that, not studying and then get possessed by an evil spirit.

The Irish girl woke up a couple of hours later, startled, and looked around a few times like she didn't know where she was. Kroenen, observing from his spot at the window, stood up and walked to the bed, already raising a threatening index finger:

"Now, this wouldn't have happened if you did as I say and stayed inside studying!"

Alma just looked at him, her eyes wide, then she smiled and when he was close enough she wrapped her arms around his waist, looking up at him:

"You're here, Specky Four-Eyes!" she chirped happily in a hoarse voice. Kroenen grunted:

"Lucky you, Alma. No more getaways, are we understood?"

Her smile died, slowly, and for a moment she stared to a place only she could see. Then she nodded, slowly:

"'kay..." she replied. Kroenen arched his hairless eyebrows; Alma agreeing like that without a huge argument full of colourful vocabulary could only mean something was wrong. The German man tilted his head:

"Are you alright?" he asked. The girl just looked at him, until she nodded again, slowly, and touched the back of her head:

"My head hurts, though... and my throat feels funny..." She shrugged. "Guess I'll be fine...?"

"Sure," Kroenen tilted his head to the other side, not really convinced.

* * *

After making the girl company for dinner, Kroenen made his way to his bedroom. Alma had been too quiet, and that annoyed him. Something had to be wrong.

He got in the room, closed the door and went to sit at the edge of the bed. He started to unbutton his uniform jacket; since the failure in the mausoleum, Kroenen had decided to leave his suit and breastplate aside and instead he wore his old SS uniform. It was comfortable and Alma said it was a masterpiece of fashion in spite of the stitches in the places where the fabric had been torn by the metal bar. He also wore the little metallic lid to cover the hole in his chest, since he didn't need the key to wind himself up to teach the girl the basics of fencing or to simply keep an eye on her and make sure she wouldn't get in trouble.

He had just undressed the jacket when Alma knocked at the door:

"Yes, Pooka?" he asked patiently. Alma opened the door and came in, wearing a ridiculously oversized sweatshirt as a pajama. She had removed her makeup and her hair was tied on a loose side-braid:

"We could play chess!" she suggested. "Or I could make you a stylish outfit; you know lad, the best ideas usually come around at night and-"

"Or you could go to sleep because tomorrow you have fencing practice for the whole day," Kroenen replied and crossed his arms. Alma smiled nervously and bit her lower lip:

"Hm... can't you teach me something cool? Like walking on walls..." But Kroenen's mask, dark and shiny and inexpressive, looked back at her menacingly. Alma sighed sadly and sat on the bed next to him. "I don't want to sleep."

_That damned spirit..._, Kroenen thought and nodded, slowly:

"Loose memories?"

"Shitloads of them, the little fuckers!"

Kroenen sighed, stood up and pulled her wrists gently:

"Fine, I'll read the boring book for you... only two chapters to finish," the masked man said and signaled with his head the book resting on the recamier at the end of the room. Alma clapped her hands excitedly and went to fetch the book.

* * *

Kroenen didn't have to read much that night; after five pages Alma was fast asleep. Kroenen spent some time looking at her, to be sure she was actually asleep. The wind howled outside and the velvet curtains were completely closed, but he still could see her peaceful face. However, just as the masked man stood up, the Irish girl frowned.

And her frown grew bigger.

And bigger.

And bigger.

And she _whimpered_. Kroenen had never heard such a pained sound from her. The masked man tensed up, suddenly worried, and left the book on the floor and sat at the edge of Alma's bed again.

Another _whimper_.

Kroenen had to see what was going on and touched Alma's forehead with his fingers.

* * *

_Her mind was a chaotic turmoil of memories, some good but most bad. There were voices of people yelling at her and the sound of cries and sobs. There was HIS voice yelling at her, insulting her. Everything began to spin faster and faster and Kroenen began to feel slightly disturbed with all the noise and movement._

_Alma was in the church being exorcised._

_Alma was in the graveyard during her grandmother's funeral._

_Alma was in her room, drawing something that looked like a birthday cake. By the type of drawing, she should be nine years-old:_

_"Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me..." the girl sang sadly and looked at the finished drawing. She blew the candle. "Now I have to make a wish... I wish my family wants me again."_

_Alma was staring through the window, to the children playing outside. It was raining and they were all happily playing in the puddles and making mud cakes. The little girl sighed, feeling miserable; she had overheard her parents talking to each other about the excuse they had told the other children, that Alma was very ill, that no one could play with her... Alma knew all of them from the times she was allowed to go outside, like a normal child. Now, apparently they all had forgotten about her. They didn't even look at her window._

_Alma was drawing a dress when someone unlocked the door of her room and her mother peeked into the room, looking at the girl with fearful and distrustful eyes:_

_"Grandma is here, is your bag ready?" And the girl smiled and nodded, feeling happy; she loved to spend the weekends with her grandmother._

_Alma was in the graveyard during her grandmother's funeral, again._

_Alma was standing in front of a mirror, in her room. She was wearing black jeans and a black strapless top and was clumsily putting on her makeup. Putting on makeup for the first time. When she finished, she smiled to the girl in the mirror. The makeup was horrible, excessive and blurred, and no matter how hard Alma posed, she still didn't have enough curves to make those clothes look good on her:_

_"One day..." she whispered, tugging up a little the strapless top. "... I'll be the prettiest woman in the world, the most fashionable, I'll have lots of friends and they all will ask me for fashion tips!" She gave up on the rebellious top. "I'm going to be a fashion designer and take grandma in a cruise to Greece! She said Greek cheese is good!"_

_Alma was in the middle of a forest, trying desperately to shift completely to a raven. It was getting dark and soon her mother would unlock the door of the bedroom to give her dinner... and she wouldn't be there! She had to be at her room! If her parents knew she was able to get out, they would probably close the window with bricks!_

_Alma was standing before the mirror. She should be fifteen years-old by then. She was trying various types of smiles to figure out the one she should use the day she finally made friends._

_Alma was looking outside, through the window. By the colourful lights on the windows of the nearby houses, it was Christmas. She watched, helpless, as her aunts and uncles and cousins said goodbye to her parents and left, without even looking to the window of her room. They probably didn't even ask about her anymore. They had probably forgotten... Tears blurred her vision._

_Alma was alone in her room. The house was silent. It was raining outside. She was just staring to the ceiling._

_Alma was standing before the mirror wearing the prototype of a dress she was sewing. Now that she had it on, it was actually easy to mark the things she had to adjust:_

_"The day I meet someone..." she mumbled and lifted her eyes from the fabric to the mirror, to inspect the result. "... I have to be friendly, and funny, and tell a lot of jokes. I think that's cool, so probably someone else would think that, too."_

_Alma was standing before a delightful Rasputin, a curious Ilsa and a not really amused Kroenen. Her heart was pounding madly in her chest and her cheeks were hurting, but she had to keep on smiling because that sounded the right thing to do when meeting new people._

_Alma was in her room, inspecting her makeup in the mirror. She had been crying and was mentally cursing Kroenen for nosing around her memories._

_Alma stepped in the dark mausoleum._

_Alma watched as Kroenen was defeated by the red demon and his friend, and as the Sammaels were burned, and as Rasputin died, and as the giant octopus smashed Ilsa, and as the red demon exploded the octopus._

_Alma observed in sheer horror as Kroenen crawled from under the cogwheel. All that blood... what if he died? She would be alone again, she would have to go back to her parent's house! But how, if by now they surely knew she wasn't in her room anymore? Kroenen began to yell at her and to insult her, and the girl felt miserable and useless._

* * *

Kroenen shook his head, slowly; he didn't want to see more. He held Alma's shoulder and shook her gently:

"Pooka..." he called. "Alma."

The Irish girl opened her eyes and blinked quickly:

"Aye...?" she mumbled:

"You are having nightmares. That spirit messed up your memories, didn't it? You've been thinking about those the whole day and that's why you didn't want to sleep, am I right?"

Alma smiled sadly and it was now official; Kroenen hated _that_ smile:

"Bang on, lad..." She sighed and changed to a sitting position. "Didn't want to bother you because you'd probably yell at me since this is my own fault... for escaping instead of studying."

Kroenen meditated a little on her words. It still impressed him how Alma was impossibly childish and talkative and an absolute headache in a moment... and in the other she acted responsible, adult-like, and even managed to be reasonable! The German man sighed; he had known Alma for nearly three months and wondered how many years it would take for the girl to finally stop surprising him. Kroenen hauled his legs to the bed, rolled unceremoniously over Alma's legs - which made her grumble something in Gaelic - and sat beside her, making himself comfortable against the headboard of the bed:

"Earlier, when I told you the getaways were over... did you remember your window?" he asked. Alma, uninvited, leaned on him and rested her head on his chest. Kroenen sighed annoyedly but did nothing to move her away:

"Yeah... all the years I spent looking outside, wishing I could go out... and then all the years I actually managed to go out... but I always wished I could go further away."

"Why didn't you run away?"

Alma shrugged, listening carefully to the sound of Kroenen's clockwork heart working steadily:

"And where should I go? I actually thought about it more seriously, when I turned eighteen... thought I'd go to Dublin, get a job in a pub, earn some money and somehow become a fashion designer," The girl chuckled darkly. "You made me realise I'm absolutely unprepared to face the world, lad..."

"You're just too naive for your own good."

"Naive? Last time you said I was shallow, and silly, and too talkative."

"You can't take a compliment, you damned Pooka..." Kroenen laughed and felt slightly guilty. Alma shrugged and closed her eyes; indeed, the sound of Kroenen's heart was tranquilizing. Kroenen tilted his head, noticing the girl intended to fall asleep on him. Again. She had to lose that habit, even though she had only done it once. And he had to lose the habit of simply sighing and let her be.

The girl had no peaceful night, though. Kroenen could help her, he could get in her mind and use his own energy to tame the rebellious memories. Yet he didn't do it; Alma would have to learn to live with her ghosts, just like Kroenen had done. That would make her stronger, and wiser, and would hopefully teacher her about the importance of studying.

When Alma became fully conscious, a few hours before dawn, she felt exhausted. And the thought that there could be dark rings under her eyes wasn't pleasing. Then she heard it; Kroenen's mechanical heart. And she felt his chest rising and falling under the soft and old fabric of his shirt. She opened her eyes and looked up; his shoulders were relaxed and his masked head was resting against the headboard of the bed. His raspy breathing sounded peaceful:

"Lad?" Alma called and rubbed her eyes. Kroenen grunted. "Karl?"

"Was?" (What?) he grunted again. His shoulders tensed and the masked head turned to face the girl. "You look horrible, Pooka-"

"Thank you, you littl-" Kroenen covered Alma's mouth with his mechanical hand before she had time to insult him:

"- so today you should stay here and rest," the masked man explained patiently. Alma's sleepy eyes widened. "Can you get your own breakfast, or do I have to get you something from the kitchen?"

He uncovered her mouth and Alma just stared at him, her mouth still open to call him whatever original endearing term Irish people used for those who displeased them. She finally shrugged and rested her head on his chest, again:

"I can manage," the girl said. "You're staying here with me, right?"

"I was thinking about going to the library-"

"But what if that shit spirit strikes back again? Or what if one of those monsters that were swirling in the portal came out and it's hiding under my bed-"

"Stop interrupting me!" Kroenen demanded annoyedly. "I was thinking about going to the library... but I'm going to stay here."

"Oh!"

"Oh!" Kroenen mimicked and crossed his arms. Alma made a face, but said nothing. Instead she sat upright, with her back supported by the pillows, and slipped her hand under the blankets. She then showed Kroenen a cereal bowl:

"I'm getting good!" she exclaimed and the German man nodded, pleased. "It's nice of you staying here, making me company. Why?"

"Why «why»?"

"A bird told me you want to tell me something," Alma winked and took a spoonful of cereal. Kroenen tilted his head to one side and sighed as she kept looking at him like a raven looks at a dying animal. That ability of hers to perceive humans was, Kroenen concluded right in the spot, what he hated the most on the shapeshifting girl; that gave him little or no room at all not to tell things he didn't intend to say. He sighed, admitting to himself that he actually _wanted__ to talk_:

"I was possessed too, once. Also during my first attempt to invoke spirits."

Alma stopped the route of the spoon and widened her eyes. Those big green eyes, looking at Kroenen with both surprise and disbelief. The masked man caught himself grinning like a fool; when Ilsa had heard of it, she had mocked him for months and sometimes she still threw it in his face. True, Ilsa had learned faster and without any incident... not that Kroenen would ever admit that aloud...:

"Stop the lights!" the girl said and finally submerged the spoon in the bowl:

"It wasn't pretty..." Kroenen frowned. "I was alone, and I had the very nasty experience of having someone else controlling my being for an entire week. The only good thing was the spirit didn't make me leave my apartment - that would have been my ruin - and Master came looking for me."

"An entire week!" Alma repeated in awe:

"Don't speak with your mouth full..."

Alma shrugged and hurried to finish her breakfast. She left the empty bowl on the floor, next to the book, and crawled out of the bed to go brush her teeth. Kroenen waited patiently until she came back and handed him a comb. He looked at the comb in her hand like it was a pre-historical artifact he knew nothing about:

"Did your spirit do it all arseways, too?" Alma asked and untied her hair. Defeated, Kroenen accepted the comb and Alma sat on his legs. Kroenen grumbled between clenched teeth that situation was never to be repeated again. "Why and how do spirits possess people? How did you know I was possessed? I tried to tell you something was feeling wrong, but then I realised I couldn't control my body, it was bloody weird and creepy and terrifying!"

"If by «arseways» you mean my head was left in a pretty mess... so yes, my spirit did it all arseways," The masked man began to comb her long wavy black hair. He had to admit it felt nice on his gloveless natural hand. "The so called «evil spirits» are stray beings who went to the so called «Hell» and have a strong attachment to the human life. They want to have a human life again, with a human body to fulfill human needs. Since reincarnation is impossible for those beings, possession is their only mean to achieve what they want," Kroenen paused, holding a lock of black hair between his thumb and index finger. "People with negative energies tend to be easy preys, and so do ill people and people whose mind is disturbed, be it by illness, be it by harmful memories or thoughts. In your case, and since you have no experience dealing with the spirit world, it was very easy for an evil spirit to take advantage of your memories to disturb you."

Alma hummed, understanding:

"Why «so called evil spirits» and why «so called Hell»?"

Kroenen smiled under his mask and curled the lock of Alma's hair around his fingers; he absolutely loved when she wanted to know things from him:

"For what I've seen, your grandmother seemed to know a lot about the pre-christian Irish culture."

"She knew everything!"

"So tell me Pooka, did she ever mention a place named «Hell», or a place that resembles the christian Hell?"

"Uhh... well, some say the Fomorians came from a place underground... but there's no such thing as the concept of the christian Hell. Ok, I got it, I got... But why «evil spirits»?"

"As you said once... evil and good are relative. I can use the aid of a spirit, and the intended target might consider said spirit «evil». I can consider it an ally, a good thing," Kroenen sighed and let her hair slip away. "What you have to learn is that there are many things walking in the shadows. All of those things are your allies, you just have to be strong enough to control them."

"Creepy..." Alma mumbled and went back to her original place beside Kroenen. The masked man rolled his eyes and left the comb over the bed. One day she would understand...

They stood in silence for a while. A weak sunbeam had made its way through a small opening between the heavy velvet curtains, but aside from it the room was still in complete darkness. The Irish girl leaned on Kroenen again and he sighed helplessly:

"I can see in the dark," she said:

"Good for you. I can see in the dark, too."

"I've read in a magazine that people with bright eyes are able to see in the dark because-"

"It has nothing to do with it. But I don't know why you can do it," he lied. He knew. He just couldn't tell:

"So how did you got night-vision?"

"It's not called like that, and I might tell you one day, when you're older and wiser and call things by their proper name."

"Gobshite, here's a proper name for you."

Kroenen grumbled something in German and crossed his arms. Alma chuckled, looking to nowhere in particular. Despite the apparent quietude, the annoying memories were still gnawing at her. She snuggled on the cold and suddenly tense body next to her:

"What did your spirit do to you?" Alma asked. Kroenen was silent for a moment, until he exhaled slowly:

"The same yours did to you. It made me see things I wanted to forget," the masked man replied and glanced to the girl. She was looking at him, understanding, and suddenly Kroenen had the feeling his chest was tightening painfully. He looked around, to the dark and silent room; he was introducing Alma to the Occult, he had to make something good out of her so that Rasputin would be pleased. Yet Rasputin wasn't there to watch, nor Ilsa, and judging by the last time, his Master would take a little to come around again. Kroenen mentally cursed himself for having to repeat over and over that he and Alma _had time_. "My tutor yelling at me because that word was new and too big for me to sing it correctly for the first time, my colleagues victimizing me with their stupid pranks, my fellow Nazis whispering in my back that I was insane, Ilsa nagging me for nothing and nosing around my business... my loneliness."

Kroenen considered telling Alma he had paid women to go out for a walk in the park with him. Women that had always insisted to know what was under the mask and that he had killed because their company grew from pleasant to annoying. He decided not to tell her, because that would probably lead her to constantly hug him or fall asleep on him, and for Kroenen company and contact were two very distinct things that didn't necessarily walk hand in hand.

* * *

_2005, castle in Moldavia, January_

Kroenen leaded Alma to his dungeon, using his hands to cover her eyes. They walked slowly, since Alma had sprained her ankle in a fighting session and still limped.

They got in the dungeon and stopped, and the German man approached his masked head to her ear:

"Don't you even think of looking without being told," he warned.

Alma just nodded and felt Kroenen walk away, but little later she felt Kroenen was back and _there was something on her neck._ Something cold and heavy and the girl frowned and intended to touch it, but he slapped her hand away:

"Open your eyes."

She did and looked down, to a small iron triskelion hanging from a chain around her neck. The Irish girl looked at Kroenen, frowning:

"So... this is why you nagged me to the brink of insanity to get you that forging material...?" The masked man nodded, calmly. "And I presume this is the reason why you left me alone up there, last week..." Kroenen nodded again. "Is this your way to say sorry for ruining my ankle?"

"It's your birthday..." the German man chuckled and felt a strange satisfaction as Alma widened her eyes, surprised. "Seems you were too worried about your temporary inability to wear heels to remember..."

Alma just opened and closed her mouth, looking from the necklace to the masked man in front of her. She finally looked around, to the dungeon, and spotted the forging material in a corner, where Kroenen had placed a blanket from the ceiling to the floor, so that Alma could get him the material in place; the small pieces like the hammers and the anvil had been easy for her to summon, the different types of metal bars had been a little more complicated, and the huge stone furnace had made her faint. The day after, she had sprained her ankle and since then had been in a really, really bad mood. It had been a week. Seven days alone in her room, cursing Kroenen for spending his time playing blacksmith instead of making her company, like a friend is supposed to do.

She looked back him; he irradiated joy, she had never seen him like that. He was bouncing back and forth, like a happy child:

"Just like I presumed, your face is priceless," he said. Alma looked at the triskelion again and held it with the tips of her fingers:

"This is beautiful! You... you did it for me?"

Kroenen didn't manage to complete the nod; the girl hugged him tightly and hid her face on the crook of his neck. Kroenen just sighed patiently and placed both hands on her shoulders:

"I thought you would appreciate my skills," he said. He just hoped she wouldn't know the memory he had seen of one of her birthdays had disturbed him deeply. The loneliness, the vain hope... he could relate. The masked man felt her arms tighten even more around him and concluded she probably knew his real reasons. He sighed and hugged her properly, since he couldn't come up with anything to say.

* * *

_2005, castle in Moldavia, March_

"Gobshite," Alma groaned:

"Dumpfbacke, " (Idiot) Kroenen grumbled:

"Shite!"

"Himmeldonnerwetter..." (Damn and blast it...) the masked man grunted and pushed open the wooden door of the dungeon. That dungeon was becoming quite a messy place; it worked as his «lab», as his forge and as an infirmary.

Supporting their weights on each other, Alma and Kroenen limped to the stretcher and the Irish girl sat on it:

"This..." Alma hissed and lifted her hand from the bleeding wound on her neck. "...better not leave a fucking mark!"

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I just gave you the beginning of a big and ugly scar," Kroenen replied and sat on the chair next to the stretcher. He pulled a dagger from his thigh and another one from his left forearm. "Here, I don't need these accessories."

"You're a dead man," Alma sighed between gritted teeth and slapped the daggers away. She watched as Kroenen, undisturbed, removed his bloody gloves to put on surgical gloves and pulled closer a big first-aid box that was on a table near the stretcher:

"Am I?" he replied in a mocking tone as he picked up from the box a needle and thread. Alma grew paler:

"Don't you fucking dare stitching me again! I'll never be able to wear a mini-skirt again thanks to the scar you left in my thigh!"

"I thought you had a beauty cream to erase scars," Kroenen commented casually and stood up, holding a gauze and a bottle of oxygenated water. He soaked the gauze, moved aside a few locks of black hair that had escaped from Alma's messy ponytail and washed the wound. The girl flinched:

"It's not working..."

"That's psychological."

Alma cursed in Gaelic and allowed Kroenen to stitch her. She knew that, if she refused, he would simply knock her out and stitch her, like what had happened the first time she had needed stitches. The girl hated that; it hurt a lot, she couldn't take a proper bath for a while and it left an ugly scar! Humming quietly, Kroenen started to stitch her. Alma licked her lips nervously:

"I don't like to fight you. I like the fencing lessons, but I don't like the agros," she grumbled:

"But you are becoming a good opponent!" Kroenen replied with a chuckle; how come that the descendant of the deity associated with battle didn't want to fight? Yet the masked man had found the trigger for Alma's «Nemain genes», and the trigger was leaving a mark on her. The wound he had done on her neck had made her wrathful and then yes, she had given him one of the best fights ever. Now he just had to find a way to teach her not to spend her energy that fast and to use her head to think properly... and then yes, she would be a perfect fighter! Alma was becoming a skilled fencer and, while fighting, she was able to summon pretty convenient weapons. Kroenen just needed to insist with her on firearms, because her aim wasn't that good.

Kroenen loved a good fight. By no means he would leave Alma walk away from it. He finished stitching and cut the excessive thread:

"There. You are free to go," he said:

"Finally!" Alma grumbled, pushed him aside and walked with large strides to the door. Or limped. She was sore, her hair was a mess, she had broken her thumb nail, the combat boots felt heavy on her feet and the worker jumpsuit, that had seemed such a glorious idea, was torn in several places. The girl mentally thanked Kroenen for suggesting her to wear knee and elbow pads...

Thinking on Kroenen, the girl glanced over her shoulder when she reached the door. He had undressed the upper part of his suit and was about to stitch the wound in his forearm. Now that she was becoming a «good opponent», he preferred to wear his suit and the breastplate with the wind-up key. Facing his back, Alma observed all those scars for a moment, especially a particularly deep one that disappeared under the mask on his head. She bit her lower lip and hesitated for a moment, then she shook her head and made her way back to where the German man was standing.

He felt her approach and turned around to look at her, the needle already buried in his skin:

"Broken stitches, already?" he asked. The girl had a concerned look on her face and she shook her head:

"Let me stitch you," she said.

Kroenen tilted his head to one side, removed the needle from his skin, left if aside and sat on the chair, utterly surprised. That, he wasn't expecting. At least now, out of the blue, with Alma at the age of nineteen.

The girl sat on the stretcher, close to him, and reached out for the gauze and the oxygenated water bottle:

"You didn't even disinfect!" she censured. Slowly, Kroenen stretched his arm to her and allowed her to clean the deep wound:

"You don't have germs..." he replied. After all those months, he had declareded Alma «germless», therefore everything that came from her was free of germs as well. At least, that made sense in his head:

"I'm flattered. Now, how do I do it?"

"It's just like one of your dresses," Kroenen chuckled and observed, interested, as the girl had no idea of what to do. She finally put on surgical gloves, held the needle and the thread and, after a little hesitation, started to stitch his skin like it was fabric.

Kroenen let out a hiss and she looked at him, eyes wide and fearful:

"Did I hurt you, lad?" she whispered:

"Don't mind me, keep on stitching," he replied and bit his tongue to the point of tasting blood. Alma did as she was told and Kroenen tensed his muscles.

He knew he would enjoy being stitched. Being stitched was always a pleasure.

He just didn't know he would _like it that much_. He thought he would be wary; afterall, that was the first time someone else was doing that to him. But no! _Stupid body!_, Kroenen thought and clenched his mechanical hand. Alma's gentle touch and the sharp and stinging pain from the needle piercing his skin and flesh and the thread pulling everything together was delicious. Too delicious, that was not supposed to happen. How would he manage to focus and give her instructions, once she agreed on helping him to be perfect, if his _stupid body_ acted so ridiculously? The warmth was uncomfortable, but at the same time he wanted it, more and more. Kroenen was tired of being constantly dead cold. And the blood heating and speeding up in his veins, like his heart wasn't as precise as clockwork. And his skin getting goosebumps, somehow visible among the countless scars. And his _heart_, trying to work faster.

Alma cut the excess of thread and looked at the masked man expectantly. She felt his tension and was really afraid she had hurt him. The dark lenses of his mask, staring at her with such intensity, gave her the impression she was shrinking.

Kroenen slowly moved his arm away from her and looked at the stitch; not bad, but it could be improved. Once he was alone he would reopen it and stitch it properly:

"I thought you didn't like... how do you say, gory stuff?" Kroenen said and looked at the girl again. She shrugged:

"And I don't... but... it just didn't feel right to walk away and leave you wounded and alone..."

"Still pitying me, Pooka?" Kroenen chuckled, amused, but Alma offered him her most serious expression:

"I care about you, gobshite!"

Offended, the girl stood up and walked away to the door. This time she left.

Kroenen looked at the wound in his thigh, her words echoing in his mind. _I care about you, gobshite!_, he repeated over and over in his head. That could only mean she wouldn't mind helping him in his quest for perfection.

* * *

_2005, castle in Moldavia, September_

Kroenen sneaked into Alma's room and, silently, went to sit at her bed. He frowned under his mask:

"You should be sleeping, it's almost midnight!" he scolded. The girl sniffled:

"It hurts..."

"Hopefully you learned about the importance of doing as I say, and not as you want," Kroenen grumbled and, carefully, held one of Alma's hands. Both of her hands were wrapped in bandages. Earlier that day the girl conjured a little fat demon to annoy Kroenen and, while he was busy chasing it in the yard, Alma had decided to explore the emoty wings of the castle. The place she was NOT allowed to go, according to the masked man. She had found the room that, theoretically, had the main system of the central heating. She imaged it a series of fancy machinery and mechanisms that Kroenen surely liked, and decided to take a look and understand how it worked.

Too bad, a hellish flame was what kept the castle warm. Alma had seriously burned the palms of her hands while trying to open the door.

Now her hands hurt, her head hurt from crying and from hearing Kroenen's furious lecture and the burn would surely leave a mark. Apparently the masked man wasn't angry anymore and he swung his legs over the bed and leaned his back against the headboard and the pillows. With a sad sigh, she girl rested her head on his legs:

"I thought it was something cool..."

"Well, it was burning hot."

"Your puns are complete shit..." But Alma smiled. "Next time you could explain me why you don't want me walking around. If you just say «Oi lass, don't walk around!» that'll only make me want to explore the place."

"Wrong, young lady!" Kroenen slapped her head, annoyed, and she yelped. "Next time I tell you not to go to a place, you simply don't!"

Alma began a mighty rant, but Kroenen didn't listen. Stupid girl, she could have died and then he would be alone and by no means he would be able to redeem himself before Rasputin. The German man sighed tiredly and ran the fingers of his natural hand through her wavy hair; he liked to touch it, and now that the girl helped him to patch up after training he was starting to feel more comfortable with the concept of company that implies touching.

His body still behaved badly and, much for Kroenen's dismay, his own mind was starting to rebel too; it made him think the situation was pleasing and that he needed and _wanted_ more. No! That was wrong! Alma was a friend, an annoying friend, she was supposed to listen to him and help him. Kroenen's package of friendship didn't include _those_ nasty things he was feeling, _those_ were the kind of things people like Ilsa felt towards the object of their affections. Kroenen by no means wanted to exchange friendship for love and all the useless things that came with love, like lust and heartaches. Besides, love was for the weak, and Kroenen was not weak:

"Karl?" Alma called, interrupting his thoughts. Kroenen looked down to his lap; her eyes were closed and there was a little smirk on her lips. "What's troubling you?"

"Haven't you just learned not to nose around, Pooka?"

"What's troubling and worrying you, Specky Four-Eyes?" Alma opened her eyes and rolled over her back, to be able to look at him. Kroenen let her hair slip away from his fingers and for a moment he looked at his hand, holding nothing. Then he sighed and rested his hand on her head:

"I care for you, utterly irritating Irish girl. And Master told me to teach you, you are supposed to wait with me for his return. So, don't you dare getting in trouble again."

"Oi oi oi, what about all the times you nearly kill me?"

"That's danger under control! I am a professional," Kroenen chuckled and looked around. "Now sleep. And the first thing you are doing once your hands heal is cleaning this messy room."

Alma frowned, but turned around to lay on her side again.

* * *

**Weeeee, review?**


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